


Sling

by Humbae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Description of Injuries, Friendship, Gen, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hypothermia, Mushy, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Security Blanket, Taking some liberties with how magic works, Violence, Whump, and some are very terrible, injured geralt, some people are nice, some random ocs - Freeform, the blanket scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humbae/pseuds/Humbae
Summary: My entry for Geralt Whump Week 2020. Inspired by (but unrelated to) this passage in A Little Sacrifice by Andrzej Sapkowski:"Geralt? Did you have lunch today? No? And tomorrow? And the day after? I see little chance, Witcher, very little. It's difficult for you to find work normally and now, with your arm in a sling --"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 154
Kudos: 272





	1. Day 1: Ostracism and Day 5: Loneliness

Day 1: Ostracism & Day 5: Loneliness

The fields he passed were bare. Autumn hadn’t yet turned to winter, but it was unseasonably cold. Geralt looked around, seeing nothing but the dark soil of the tilled fields. They’d been harvested early this year from what he could reckon. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself with his right hand, taking care not to tug too hard over the left shoulder. That arm was in a sling, and would be for some time still. Damned unlucky griffin hunt. He’d slayed the beast, but not before it had managed to strike its beak in his left shoulder, breaking something in it. He’d seen a healer about it. Not a good one, the man had claimed he’d set it properly and immobilised it in the optimal position, but the pain was still as acute as it had been the day he received the injury, and he couldn’t move the arm at all.

Three weeks had passed since the incident. Geralt had no coin or food left. He’d attempted a couple of contracts that had sounded simple, but they’d ended up being too much for him to handle in his impaired state. He’d lost two days and received nothing for his trouble but angry words.

Geralt walked on between the fields. He didn’t even have his damned horse. The healer had demanded an outrageous price for his fumblings, forcing Geralt to sell Roach. That still stung. He’d been able to tell that the injury would be career-ending if left untreated, so he’d chosen what he’d considered the lesser evil in giving up the horse, as much as it pained him to do so. As always, his choices led him from a bad situation to an utterly terrible one. Now he had no horse, no functioning arm, and not a single coin to his name.

The sun was setting, and Geralt still had quite a walk to reach the town amidst the fields. His pace had slowed down in the recent days. Every step hurt his shoulder, and the lack of nourishment was starting to affect him. He could go for a few days without food and retain his efficiency, but his stamina did have its limits. Especially since he hadn’t been lounging in idleness, building his reserves before the injury, but on the Path taking on as many contracts as he could in order to buy resources for the winter to bring to Kaer Morhen with him. The keep seemed impossibly far away now. Without a horse, even if he could run the whole way, he’d still be cutting it very close before the first snows.

The black fields around him reflected his mood. Clouds were swiftly gathering in the sky, promising rain later. With his luck, they’d probably drench him before he reached the town. He wasn’t keen on visiting it, but he had to do something in order to improve his situation. He’d been subsisting on whatever berries and mushrooms he could find in the forest, but the approaching winter would soon spoil whatever was still left. He needed to visit a town and find a competent healer, and some simple problems he could solve for payment, perhaps an easy curse to lift or a lame ghoul to vanquish. He still had his swords, and they weren’t optimised for dual-wielding anyway, he could make do with one hand and his signs, as long as the target wasn’t too difficult. Something between what the villagers could handle themselves, and what a wounded witcher could manage.

Geralt estimated he still had an hour’s walk ahead of him when the clouds delivered on their promise. The rain was freezing, and made even worse by the sharp wind that was rising. Geralt shuddered as he walked. With his depleted reserves, he was having trouble tolerating the cold. His shoulder ached miserably, spiking with pain whenever his foot hit the ground. He felt hollow and detached, and slow. Hopefully the town would offer him shelter while he gathered what strength he had. A night of rest and he’d be on his way. He couldn’t pay for an inn, but perhaps there’d be work, or he’d be allowed to sleep in the stables.

By the time Geralt reached the gates, he was soaking wet and so cold he could barely think straight. He walked through the still open doors, stumbling in the uneven mud. Darkness was descending quickly with the setting sun hidden from view behind low-hanging clouds.

“You cut it close, stranger,” the guard at the gate said. “I was just about to lock the doors. Such a miserable night, but one could say it’s perfect for staying indoors. Did you come to visit family for the harvest feast?”

Geralt looked up. He had pulled his hood low, but his eyes must’ve given him away, glimmering gold in the dimness. The guard flinched and grimaced. But he’d already admitted a witcher into town. He looked like he was about to say something, but Geralt ignored him and walked on. His feet were wet. Evidently he’d worn holes in both boots at some point, and they were letting water in now. He could barely feel his toes.

The inn was in the middle of the town, an impressive three-storey building. That promised prosperous villagers who weren’t unused to travellers. Perhaps he could find some work, busy roads meant the locals benefitted from the people passing through and would do everything in their power to ensure those people would continue to come in the future as well. News of a pack of wargs or giant centipedes roaming nearby would spread fast and influence passing merchants’ itineraries, making taking care of the threats a priority.

Geralt opened the door and stepped in. He could immediately see that some sort of a special event was taking place. The guard at the gate had mentioned a harvest feast. Judging by the tables laden with dishes made from different root vegetables and corn and apples and bread, that was exactly what was happening here. Geralt took the scents in, automatically analysing every component. His stomach had been empty for so long that it didn’t react, but he felt dizzy with the intoxicating aromas. A proper meal would warm him up and energise him. He took a step in the direction of the closest table, looking longingly at the deep tin plate holding a steaming stew in it.

“Excuse me,” someone said. Geralt stopped moving and turned towards the person, his eyes reluctantly leaving the table.

“We’re reserved exclusively for families tonight. I can see you’re a witcher and thus I know you don’t have any.”

Geralt stared at the villager uncomprehendingly. His body’s desperate need for nourishment overrode his ability to accept that even the smallest morsel was denied from him.

“Come back tomorrow,” the villager said when Geralt didn’t move.

“I’m looking for work. I’ll pay tomorrow.”

“Like I said, tonight is for families only. You can rent a room, but the payment is up front.”

Geralt realised somewhere in his fuzzy mind that he was talking with the proprietor of the inn. The person wasn’t speaking fast or using difficult words, but Geralt had trouble absorbing the meanings.

“Yes, a room,” he said. His voice was as unsteady as he was, trembling along with him.

“Do you have the coin?”

“No. But I will.”

“Then you don’t have a room. Please leave.”

The villager touched Geralt’s right shoulder, attempting to guide him outside. Geralt growled, drawing several pairs of eyes on him. He heard whispers of ‘monster’ and ‘freak’ but those were easy to ignore. The promise of food was harder to let go. There was so much on offer, and only a handful of people in the inn. Surely they could’ve spared a single dumpling for him.

“Filthy beast,” someone hissed as Geralt reached the door. He slipped outside, instantly shivering when the cold night air hit him through his wet clothes. His leather armour would’ve kept the wind at bay, but he’d sold it along with his saddle and everything he’d carried with him. With his arm the way it was, he couldn’t even get the jerkin on, much less wear it without considerable discomfort.

The rain had subsided, but wind had risen more furious than before, and clouds now covered the entire sky. Geralt walked to the other end of the town, in search of a more humble inn that would be less selective of its guests. When he reached what he assessed to be the shadiest area, he realised that there was no secondary inn. The streets were empty of people, more so than the miserable weather could account for. As Geralt wandered, he saw lights in several windows. Inside, people were gathered around tables, all sharing a meal. When he reached the better part of town again, the feasts he saw grew grander, almost to obscene levels.

Geralt decided he’d had enough of the town. Almost no door was open, and the shops that were were just about to close when he stepped in. No one had work for him, nor could they tell him of any who would have. He walked to the gates, boots squelching unpleasantly with the water inside. Blisters were forming on the bottoms of his feet, stinging painfully on each step. When he reached the closed gates, he knocked on them, looking around for the guard.

“What do you want?” an elderly man asked, poking his head out from the guardhouse.

“To leave,” Geralt said.

“The gates are closed,” the man said. Geralt blinked slowly and pulled in a deep breath.

“I can see that. Could you open them?”

“No. Once closed, they stay that way until the morning. No exceptions.”

Geralt didn’t have the strength to protest. He turned around and started walking, no destination in mind, only the desire to get away from the old man. He gravitated towards the inn. The doors were invitingly open, but he knew he wasn’t welcome. Looking through the windows of the ground floor, he saw warm lights and several people moving around, doubtlessly consuming the food. Even outside, Geralt’s sensitive nose picked up the distinct odours. Different kinds of meats, root vegetables, herbs. When the cloyingly sweet scent of caramel hit him, his knees buckled.

Geralt grunted as his knees impacted against the ground and jolted his shoulder. He held his right hand on the swollen mess that should’ve been his collarbone. The pain radiated down the arm, numbing his fingers. He needed a long moment before he could feel anything but the agony of his injury. When he raised his head, he realised he was sitting in a puddle of mud in the middle of the street, and he couldn’t get up. Crawling on three limbs like a lame animal, he managed to haul his body against the wall of the inn. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. A strong gust of wind tossed his soaked hair into his face, plastering it across his cheeks and forehead. He lacked the strength to brush it off.

The clouds grew heavier. Silently, snowflakes started falling, drifting down, dancing on the currents of air. They melted as soon as they hit the wet ground, quickly at first, but as the night wore on, they lingered for longer and longer, until the temperature was low enough for them to start piling up. After midnight, a thin layer of white coated the village, delighting the families celebrating harvest feast together. Many toasts were given to the gifts of the earth, and to the beauty of falling snow.

Geralt shivered miserably. Had he been in the forest, he could’ve insulated himself with fir boughs or thick clumps of heather. In the town, he had nothing. His cloak was too wet to keep the cold at bay, and his legs were numb where they were lying in a puddle, covered with snow. He could see inside the houses on the opposite end of the square at the edge of which the inn was. One window showed a woman talking and laughing, with a baby asleep on her chest. Two windows over, a family of six was gathered around a table, singing together, as he guessed from the simultaneous movements of their mouths. On the top floor, one couple was at it like wild animals, their heads bobbing in and out of view, looking progressively more dishevelled. Another window showed two elderly women drinking tea and laughing so hard they occasionally wiped their eyes.

Had Geralt really focused, he might’ve been able to hear what each cluster of humans was saying or singing. He chose not to. The only sounds assaulting his ears were the wind and the noise of the busy inn behind him. Sighing deep, he looked up into the sky. Snow was still falling, the flakes hitting his cheeks without him feeling them. He blinked slowly. Although he lived most of his life alone, rarely did he feel so acutely isolated. The contrast of everyone else spending the night with someone, and him sitting in the frozen puddle on the abandoned street made him long for home. He wasn’t even sure which home he meant. The one he’d never had, with parents and love and the unshakable knowledge that he was important to someone. Or the one he’d had, where he’d been one of many, a sword being sharpened. Or perhaps the one he had now, where the only brothers he’d ever known would always welcome him back.

But Kaer Morhen was far away. He couldn’t reach it in his current state. Maybe he’d never reach it again. His eyes found another family around another table. The man of the house was yelling, his face turning red. The two children were cowering while the woman cried. Another monster that wasn’t his problem.

Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He thought about similar nights in the dead of winter when they were all gathered around the table in the great hall of the keep. They’d be drinking white gull and trading stories about their contracts and how ridiculous humans were. Lambert would be obnoxiously loud and Vesemir would doze through his raucousness. Coën and Eskel might be playing cards and trying to catch each other cheating. Maybe there’d be something hot to eat.

Geralt smiled faintly, sinking deeper into the imagined scene, no longer feeling the cold. His breath kept misting in the air, coming slower and slower. When the snowfall finally ended in the early hours of the morning, his chest no longer visibly moved.

*****

Beata left the inn with her mother. She was full and very warm, and getting increasingly sleepy. When someone opened the door, the cold night air was like a slap in her face. She pulled her heavy winter coat tighter around herself and followed her mother, head tucked inside her collar like a snail in its shell. They said goodbye to their aunts and uncles and cousins and turned to go home to the shabbier part of town. As they walked, she noticed a pile of snow against the wall of the inn.

“Mommy! That’s a man!” she cried when she recognised the shape.

“Come along,” her mother said and tugged her arm. Beata shook her off.

“Is he alive?”

“Don’t go any closer. It’s a witcher,” she said and spat on the ground.

“Look mommy, he’s hurt,” Beata said and pointed at the witcher’s left arm which was in a grey cloth sling.

“That’s none of our business. Come on.”

“We should help him! Like last autumn when you hurt your arm and it was in a sling like his and everyone came to bring us food and help out in the yard.”

“Witchers aren’t like us normal folk. Remember when uncle Jan’s dog went rabid and it bit its master and had to be put down? Witchers are like that, they take our hard-earned coin and give us the mange in return. You stay away from them.”

“But he looks just like anyone. Maybe he’s friendly.”

“What’s going on?” Nikolai, the town blacksmith, asked as he came closer.

“Nothing, we’re just going home,” Beata’s mother said. She grabbed her daughter’s hand and pulled her along. At eleven, Beata was almost as tall as her, but nowhere near as strong.

“Is he dead?” Nikolai asked and nodded towards the witcher.

“Who cares?”

*****

Later that night, when she was in her bed under warm covers, Beata kept tossing and turning. She couldn’t find a comfortable position. It was as if the thoughts whirling around in her head made her squirm. She kept seeing the frozen witcher in her mind and she felt sorry for him. His cloak had been wet and his lips blue, but he’d looked almost serene with the fresh snow blending into his white hair. Maybe he really was dead and she was wasting her time thinking about him, but the way they’d left him there didn’t sit right with her.

As dawn approached, Beata got tired of the constant nagging in her mind. She put her outside clothes on and picked up a quilt crocheted by her grandmother from the bed. Two blankets remained, and they’d be more than sufficient for her. She could give up one. Trying to move quietly, she sneaked into the pantry and grabbed an apple. It was slightly soft and wrinkly, but edible still. Holding the bundle in her arms, she opened the front door, pausing when it creaked, waiting to see if her mother would wake up. When she heard nothing, she considered it safe to slip outside and run to the inn.

The man was still leaning against the wall when she made it back. He was terribly pale and still. Cautiously, Beata took her glove off and held her hand in front of his nose, yanking it back quickly when she felt the warmth of his breath. Satisfied that he was alive, she wrapped the quilt around his shoulders. She took care to tuck the edges under his legs to create as tight a pocket as possible, trapping what little heat he produced. As a final touch, she slipped the apple in his right hand that was resting on his lap. When she pushed his fingers against the fruit, she touched his skin. There were no sparks or jolts or anything out of the usual. His hand felt cold but otherwise just like hers, if a bit dryer and rougher, and much paler.

“Hope you’ll be alright,” she whispered before turning back towards home and starting to run, feeling much lighter.

*****

Geralt was held in an embrace. He wasn’t warm, but neither was he as frozen as his last coherent memory suggested he should be. The weight across his shoulders felt comforting, even if the left one was throbbing in agony. The pain was muted though. Probably thanks to the cold rather than any perceivable progress in the healing process. He wondered why his cloak felt so heavy, but finding out would’ve required opening his eyes and moving, and neither prospect sounded inviting to him. As he became more aware, he realised there was something held in his right hand. He couldn’t remember picking up anything the previous night, though his recollections were fragmented at best. Curiosity won, and he looked down.

It was an apple. Wrinkled, leaning more towards brown than red, but still rigid enough not to be considered rotten. He had no idea where the fruit had come from. He looked at the snow around him, but the day was far enough along that footprints thoroughly littered the street. None of the tracks came close to him though. Whoever had gifted him the apple must’ve done so in the evening or night when it was still snowing. He leaned his head back against the wall, making his swords push against something. He picked up a fistful and saw that it was a crocheted quilt, made from exceptionally thick wool, and lined with fleece. It had been wrapped snugly around him, and it had probably saved his life.

Geralt looked around. People were passing him by, but no one spared more than a quick glance in his direction. It was clear that whoever had helped him had not lingered. Geralt brought the apple to his mouth and took a bite. There was very little crunch, but the apple was juicy and quite sweet. He savoured it slowly, the first solid thing he’d put in his mouth in however many days.

“No, you do it,” someone hissed. Geralt looked discreetly around. Beside the house opposite him, there were three guards talking to each other. They seemed to have no idea that he could hear them.

“I’m not touching that creature! I don’t want syphilis!”

“One of you do it and just get it over with. It’s cold as balls here.” The female guard who had spoken rubbed her hands together, glaring at her male companions.

“Then you do it,” one of them said.

“I won the bet, completely fair. Now get moving,” the woman said. She pushed the shorter man on the back and he took a couple of involuntary steps forwards. When he lifted his gaze, his eyes met Geralt’s and he flinched.

“Shit, guys, he’s alive!” he whispered, loud enough for the humans behind him to hear. Geralt spat out the seeds of the apple, the only part he didn’t eat. The fruit had been pitifully small, but his starved body felt energised by even the meagre amount of nourishment.

“Ahem, excuse me,” the approaching guard said. “We would kindly request you to leave.”

“On what basis?” Geralt asked. He had every intention of leaving as soon as he could get up, but he wasn’t feeling charitable towards the young fool.

“Drifters are not welcome in our town.”

“Good thing I’m not one, then,” Geralt said. Despite the quilt around his shoulders, he still had easy access to his weapons. If the guard’s companions joined him and started causing trouble, he could defend himself, though depending on their skill level, it might cost him too much strength to be worth it.

“Could you kindly just leave?” the guard asked. He must’ve been even younger than Geralt had initially assessed. Quiet desperation shone on his face. If the others spurred him on, he could be dangerous in his need to prove himself.

“Since you asked you so nicely,” Geralt said, trying not to ooze sarcasm. He was in the process of extricating himself from the frozen puddle on the ground when he heard the other guards walk over.

“Get out of our town, freak,” the woman said. Her stance revealed her to be more sure of herself. Whether it was brought on by experience or vain confidence, he couldn’t tell.

“Wouldn’t want to stay in this shithole anyway,” Geralt said.

“It’s better once the trash gets thrown out.” She looked down on him with a vicious grin on her face. He was still trying to get up on legs that were numb and worryingly weak. “What purpose does a crippled witcher serve exactly?”

Geralt held onto the fraying edges of his control. Had his shoulder not been aching so fiercely, he might’ve pulled his sword to intimidate her into silence. She laughed at him when he stumbled, but finally he got himself upright. A wave of vertigo nearly knocked him back down, but he hid it.

“Goodbye,” she said and had the audacity to wave at him, twirling her fingers.

Geralt’s rage was boiling over, but at that moment the quilt nearly slipped off his shoulders and he had to catch it quickly to keep it from hitting the ground. The soft wool under his fingers made all the anger leak out of him. Someone had cared enough about a reviled stranger to give him what had to be a precious item. Hours would’ve gone into creating the quilt, even longer if the yarn had been self-spun too. Geralt ran his hand over the loops, feeling the fleece beneath with his thumb.

He turned around without saying a word and walked to the gate, head held high. He had no horse, no food, no armour, only the last dregs of his potions supplies, and one knife, but he was wrapped in the kindness of someone who had enough love within to extend to a lost cause. He would not let the person’s gift be for nothing. He would walk to the next town and he would survive.


	2. Day 2: Potions

Day 2: Potions

The weather grew more frigid the further north Geralt travelled. He didn’t know exactly where he was, but it had to be further south than he’d prefer. There was no consistent snow cover on the roads yet, but the nights were getting increasingly cold. He avoided towns as much as he could, sleeping in forests and drinking from streams, but the ever dropping temperature tested his endurance. He had no food or supplies, and no coin with which to buy any. Finding work was his only hope of improving his situation, but he was unable to perform effectively with only one functioning arm and barely enough strength to keep himself moving.

Geralt was chewing a burdock stalk rather listlessly when he happened upon a large ornate gate. The metal was rusted and the stone pillars supporting the structure were green with the moss growing on them. It could’ve been abandoned, or it could be a fashion choice, Geralt didn’t keep track of the ever-changing styles of decoration. He decided to take a peek at whatever would be at the end of the gate. A manor was most likely, but it wasn’t unheard of for a trading post or a smaller community to hide behind a gate either. With any sort of luck, they’d have use for a witcher this far outside the nearest town. He opened the latch, needing to use a bit of force to get it to move.

Pulling his quilt tighter around himself, Geralt started following the road leading away from the gate. The forest around him ended abruptly and was replaced by fields gone fallow long ago, with an occasional young tree growing in the middle. At the end of the road, there was a manor house, a sturdy giant that had once been painted yellow. Judging by its dilapidated state, Geralt guessed there would be nothing left to loot. He kept dragging his feet forwards anyway. He spotted a well not far from the road and decided to at least sate his thirst if he’d gain nothing else from the side trip.

The well was low, its stone circle rising only a foot above the ground. It was covered with a triangular wooden structure that also housed a pulley system inside for easier drawing of water. The hatch that should’ve been used to hide it all was missing, but the roof was still intact. Geralt walked closer, shuddering in the gusty wind. The plant he’d eaten before had done little to sustain him, and he felt lightheaded with exhaustion. Perhaps the water would help invigorate him enough to reach the next town. He more collapsed than kneeled down in front of the well, and peeked inside.

“Fuck me,” Geralt whispered. There was no rope attached to the cylinder in the ceiling of the structure, and no bucket in sight. As he leaned over, he saw that there was no water at the bottom either. Disheartened with disappointment, Geralt stood up. Once upright, he blinked at the sudden appearance of silver sparks dancing across his vision. Rather than clearing, his vision faded completely, replaced by violent bursts of colour. He reached out with his right hand, attempting to hold onto the wood, but he couldn’t find it. A wave of vertigo made him lose all sense of direction, and he took a few steps forwards to help with his balance. His shins hit the rim of the well hard enough to make him stumble. He tried to control his fall, but he had no concept of where to direct his weight. His head collided with something hard, making him lose what little he had left of coherent thought. There was the sensation of weightlessness, and then nothing at all.

*****

Fire. No, ice. A violent combination of both. Flames that froze, icicles that burned. Pain. All of it was pain. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe. This should worry him, but it didn’t. What did he care if his body was immobilised by agony? He was trapped in darkness that came from within. And it was soothing. Nothing could touch him, the struggle was over.

He could finally let go.

*****

When Geralt came to, pain immediately seized him, attacking him so fiercely he couldn’t breathe. His left shoulder felt shattered, like someone was pressing jagged pieces of broken glass into his flesh. He tried to ride out the agony, waiting for the worst of it to subside, but there was no progress. Eventually, he had to inhale, trying to move as little as possible. The pain that flared up in his back rivalled his shoulder, but as soon as he stilled, it faded. He tried to understand what had happened to him, but he needed another breath and he tensed against the coming pain, intensifying the grinding hurt in his shoulder.

His exhale was closer to a whine than he cared to admit. The pain in his shoulder would not let up, but he started to feel other things beside it. His back was hurting badly. Judging by how agonising each breath was, he suspected broken ribs. He couldn’t really feel his legs. That had to mean that they were uninjured and thus not registering to him. He was disinclined to try moving them, expecting a flare of pain in his back if he did so. Similarly, he kept his arms as still as he could. The left one had remained in the sling and stayed immobile. He wiggled the fingers of his right hand, feeling even that small movement as an intensification of the pain in the opposite shoulder.

He took slow, shallow breaths, trying to move his chest as little as possible. His head hurt intensely too, also warning him against moving it. Opening his eyes took a tremendous effort, but he managed it. He looked at the stone walls and the rectangle of light above him. It took him alarmingly long to realise he had fallen down the well. He had no memory of doing so, but he did recall stopping by it, searching for water.

 _Clearly, you didn’t find any_ , he thought and had to suppress the urge to laugh. If breathing hurt this much, laughing would be unthinkable. And there was nothing funny in his situation. He was at the bottom of a well behind the gate of a long-abandoned manor house. He was too hurt to move and had only one healing potion left.

Realising that he did indeed have a healing potion, Geralt tried to pluck it from the pouch on his belt, but his right hand wouldn’t move. He could lift the fingers, but the rest of the arm refused to obey his commands. Not succumbing to panic, Geralt started dragging the hand by inching his thumb forwards. It worked beautifully, until he hit the side of his thigh. He couldn’t find purchase on the slick leather pants, and his leg wouldn’t move either to assist with the process. Feeling the first tendrils of intense fear, he controlled his breathing. He could do this. He just had to get his hand on the potion, and he would recover enough use of his limbs to climb up. His inability to move was only temporary, probably the result of slamming his back hard on the stony ground. Nothing a potion couldn’t fix.

After resting for a moment, he tried to reach the bag on his side again. He tried climbing along his shirt, but it was also too slippery to cling to. He tried rotating the belt the pouch was attached to, but he lacked the strength and the coordination to move it. For one desperate moment, he considered reaching with his left hand, but the intense wave of agony from just twitching his fingers made him cry out and he abandoned the idea.

The light from above was fading. At first Geralt thought his consciousness was fleeing again, but soon realised the sun was going down. He was already cold, and the night would drop the temperature of the humid well even lower. He wasn’t sure if he would survive if he started shivering. As if prompted by his fear, his body gave a strong shudder. Luckily he didn’t have to experience it for long, since the jolt in his shoulder made pain so powerful explode in him that it wiped out his mind.

*****

Jasker was riding into the sunset, which was poor planning on his part. He’d lingered in the village too long, delaying his departure since he couldn’t bear to part with the young countess who had entertained him for two full days. He could’ve happily made it a third day, but he had a schedule for once. A nobleman was hosting a soiree in a couple of days and his wife had specifically requested Jaskier’s presence, enthusiastically endorsed by their son. The nobleman had agreed, not knowing that Jaskier would be having some extra duties outside the ballroom. Thus he needed to get there early to rest after travelling, he’d need his full strength in order to satisfy both mother and son.

“Why did you not tell me to leave sooner, Geryon? Look at the sun, it’s only barely above the horizon now,” Jaskier said, indicating the painfully bright orange ball directly in front of them, waving his arm above his horse’s head.

“Oh, what do you care, you can sleep anywhere and munch on grass. I, on the other hand, shall perish without mundane luxuries like a bed. It’s too cold to camp. With any bit of luck -- oh!”

Jaskier noticed a heavy, rusted metal gate. It looked like it had been left without maintenance for too long, but it was open. Jaskier peered through but couldn’t see anything since the road bent behind thick woods.

“Suppose there’s only one way to find out what’s at the end of the road. Hopefully they’ll welcome us, or at least we might find sturdy walls and a solid roof above our heads.”

He encouraged Geryon onwards. The grey gelding made a displeased sound as he walked through the narrow gap in the gate, but Jaskier shushed him gently. Light was quickly fading, making the forest around them look darker and more menacing than it was. Then again, all sorts of creatures could be lurking in the woods. After travelling with a witcher, Jaskier had never felt as safe alone as he had before. Now he knew everything that could be stalking him, and the reality was often worse than his imagination.

He’d parted from Geralt a month or two ago to stay behind in a village that was unusually profitable for him. The witcher had wandered on, saying he’d return to the area but had never showed up. Jaskier wished to run into him once more before he’d withdraw to Kaer Morhen for the winter, but they both went where the wind took them, so planning meetings was difficult. Sometimes he stayed with Geralt for a longer stretch, quite often the full season even, and sometimes their jobs drew them apart.

“Moments like this, I miss him the most,” Jaskier told his steed. Geryon kept trudging on. The shadows became more intense, blending into each other as darkness truly started descending. Jaskier looked behind him. Only the empty road. There had better be something waiting for him at the end, other than more forest.

Luckily, the trees started thinning. Jaskier looked around, able to make out the fields surrounding them in starlight. That was promising, fields meant humans. As they advanced, he soon realised there was a building coming up ahead. Not a single window was lit though, and the manor had an abandoned feel to it. Still, it looked sturdy enough. He could break in and spend the night in relative safety. If enough windows were intact, he might even be warmer than he would be outside.

When they got closer to the house, Jaskier noticed a well by the side of the road. He urged Geryon closer, wishing to sate his thirst and give some water for the horse. There was a tree growing next to the well, so he hopped down and tied Geryon to it. He had recently won the mount in a card game and didn’t quite trust it not to run off. The last thing he needed now was to lose his horse to the darkness and strand himself alone.

Jaskier kneeled in front of the well. It was covered with a triangular wooden structure, but the front door was missing. As he reached for the rope that should’ve been tied to the beam running across it, he realised that it was missing too. He had rope in his saddlebags, but no bucket. While he was considering his luggage and what he could use to pull up the water, he peered down. He couldn’t tell whether the well was dry or not. Again, he missed his witcher companion. Geralt would’ve immediately seen if there was water, could’ve probably been able to smell it.

“I’m sorry, Geryon, looks like we won’t get any fresh water, what’s left in my skins will have to do.”

His mount flicked his ears and made a distressed sound. Jaskier looked around. Something had alarmed the horse, but he couldn’t see or hear anything.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Geryon?”

“Jaskier?”

The voice was very weak and distant. Jaskier stared at his horse. Had it just spoken his name? Before he could approach the horse, he belatedly realised which direction the sound had come from. Utterly bewildered, he looked down the well.

Two yellow eyes shone in the dark.

“Geralt?!” Jaskier asked, raising his voice in surprise. His horse shook his head and whinnied.

“Not you, you’re Geryon. Should’ve changed the name after all. Also, I’m clearly too tired. I see things that cannot possibly be there and I’m talking to my horse.”

“Jaskier?” The voice was even weaker, but it definitely sounded like Geralt. Jaskier leaned over the rim again and looked down. The eyes were still there.

“Geralt? Is that actually you?”

“Yes.” It was barely more than a whisper.

“How in the name of the holy mother’s titties did you end up there? No, never mind that, why are you there? Are you hiding? Hunting? Come up and talk?”

“Can’t.”

The voice sounded strained. Jaskier leaned closer, but he couldn’t see anything but the gleaming eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, guessing the answer. Geralt didn’t say anything. Jaskier sighed, thinking his friend was trying to pretend he was alright when he clearly wasn’t, but as he watched, the yellow dots blinked out of existence.

“Geralt?”

No response. Jaskier pondered what to do. On one hand, he might truly be so tired that his mind had conjured up his friend after he had thought about him. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before, but there was a first time for everything, as the saying went. But on the other hand, there was the possibility that Geralt was actually at the bottom of a well in the middle of nowhere, and injured. After all, the long-abandoned gate had been opened by someone. It was entirely possible that Geralt had found himself in the same situation as he had been and followed the road.

“Roach!” Jaskier shouted. Geralt’s horse usually wasn’t far from him. It was too dark for him to look around for hoof prints, and he wouldn’t have been able to tell them from his own mount’s anyway. He shouted again, but no horse appeared.

“Hang in there, I’ll be right back.” Jaskier felt foolish talking into an empty well. He still wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t asleep in the saddle and this was all a very strange dream, but he hurried to Geryon anyway and dug his rope out. He attached it to the pulley system, tying a few extra knots to make sure it wouldn’t come undone. He considered the crank lever outside the well for a moment, and whether it would be possible to teach a horse to operate it. Abandoning the idea as entirely foolish, he started climbing down the rope.

His fingers were cold, but somehow his palms managed to be sweaty. Agility wasn’t Jaskier’s greatest strength, but he could manage a rope easily enough, especially when going down. He moved his feet along the side of the well, occasionally slipping on the wet rocks, but not losing his grip. Finally, he reached the bottom and panted for a moment, futilely waiting for his eyes to adjust to the utter darkness.

“Were I smart, I would’ve brought a source of light, but I’m not climbing back up just to retrieve my flint, so could you kindly say something if you’re here?”

No response. Jaskier dropped down to all fours and felt around with his hands. His own breathing was harsh enough that he couldn’t hear anything. His fingers encountered only the slick, cold stones of the bottom. When he was starting to be convinced that he had actually gone mad, the side of his hand hit something hard. Tensing up, Jaskier slowly gripped it with his fingers. He moved them along, finding the shape. It was a boot.

“Geralt! It really is you!”

He slid his fingers higher, going along the leather trousers. Nothing felt out of place, the muscles beneath his fingers felt smooth and the shape they should be, although trembling a bit. The bump of the knee was there, and another bump he passed quickly, and the belt. Feeling up from there, he encountered one of Geralt’s arms, draped across his stomach. He went over it and pressed around on his chest, not feeling anything unusual through his shirt. There was no armour and his sword harness seemed to be going over his right shoulder only. Curious for what the reason could be, Jaskier kept his touch light as he went higher, following the left side of Geralt’s chest. When he reached the shoulder, he had time to feel that something was out of place, before Geralt jerked and gasped. Jaskier immediately withdrew his hand. One injury discovered, then.

“Geralt? Are you there?”

“Don’t,” he said, very faintly. He sounded disturbingly weak. Jaskier started to worry that the moisture on the rocks wasn’t water after all, but the blood of a dying witcher.

“Don’t what?” he asked.

“Touch,” Geralt said, or rather whispered.

“Yeah, no, I got that. Don’t worry, probing is over now that you can tell me how badly you’re hurt.”

Jaskier waited, but either Geralt didn’t have the strength or the awareness to answer. Neither option was good.

“Geralt? Where else are you hurt?”

“Potion.”

“What? Oh! Good thinking, that should help. Where’s your bag?”

Geralt gave a sigh that sounded exasperated. Jaskier seconded the emotion.

“I know, I can tell that talking is an immense effort for you now, but you really need to explain the situation to me. I can’t see you and I don’t know what you’ve done. Have you taken any potions yet?”

“No. Belt,” Geralt forced out. Jaskier started low and carefully put his hands on Geralt again. He found a thigh and followed it, reaching the belt. His fingers encountered the familiar small leather pouch on the side. He opened it and felt inside. Most of the padded sections were empty, but one held a vial. Jasker took it out.

“Still with me?” he asked. Geralt was keeping his eyes closed, but he hummed quietly.

“Good enough,” Jaskier said and uncorked the vial. The colour of its seal would’ve told him what it was for certain, but Jaskier thought he recognised the foul smell emanating from it. He couldn’t remember the name, but he knew it was a very potent healing potion.

“Before I give you this, could you detail the extent of your injuries? I’d rather not spend any longer down here than I must, but I dare not move you if that would do more harm than leaving you be. Okay?”

Jaskier waited for Geralt to gather himself enough to reply. The single shoulder injury didn’t explain him being in such a poor condition. Depending on how he’d fallen, especially since he had both swords strapped to his back, Jaskier worried that he might have broken his neck or skull or something, resulting in instant death if he disturbed him.

“Shoulder. Back.” Geralt finally said.

“Can you move your limbs?” Jaskier asked.

“No.”

“Shit.”

Jaskier put the cork back on the vial. He wasn’t a healer or a mage. His knowledge of all things relating to the body was gathered along his wanderings or from Geralt, either by watching him put himself back together, or helping him with it. But this was something bigger than he’d ever had to deal with before. Geralt could heal from a great amount of damage, but he had limits too. Broken bones would not instantaneously knit themselves together, although faster than a human’s would. With a back injury, the situation was delicate. Jaskier had witnessed a man fall off a roof once. He had been fine until the people coming to help him had pulled him to sit up. He’d died soon after. Could one potion really make a difference?

“What do I do?” Jaskier asked. Geralt wasn’t much help. Jaskier couldn’t see him, but his breathing sounded strained and irregular, as if he was fighting against pain and losing. He had to do something or Geralt might simply expire while he waited.

“Okay, potion it is. I will not lift your head to help you drink it, so kindly don’t choke, alright?”

The soft moan he received in response carried so much hurt in it that he winced. Pulling the cork off again, Jaskier put it between his teeth for safe-keeping, making sure to not allow the side that had been in contact with the potion to touch his lips. Such a small amount was unlikely to harm him, but knowing the kinds of poisons witcher elixirs were, he didn’t want to risk it. His hands found Geralt’s mouth and he carefully poured the liquid in. Geralt swallowed it down, his gulps sounding obscenely loud in the silence of the well.

Jaskier re-corked the empty vial and slipped it back inside the pouch. He’d listened to enough of Geralt’s complaints about how expensive the tiny containers were to replace to make sure he didn’t lose one. Geralt himself tossed them aside all the time, but he was excused since that usually happened in the heat of battle.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked. He couldn’t hear anything. Either Geralt had relaxed enough in unconsciousness as the potion took effect to breathe easier -- or had stopped entirely. He placed his hand on Geralt’s chest, sighing in relief when he felt movement. The thump of the heart against his palm was a little bit rapid, but not worryingly so, even for a witcher.

“Speaking of your abnormally sluggish heart, I best go retrieve my bedroll and get you warmed up since it looks like we’ll be here all night,” Jaskier said. He had learned the hard way that witchers got easily cold, early in their friendship. Nowadays, whenever Geralt suggested sharing body heat to keep the feeble human warm, Jaskier knew it meant he was freezing his balls off but wouldn’t admit to it. And he didn’t mind being a human furnace for his friend, he appreciated the closeness as much as the additional warmth.

“Stubborn bastard,” he said, voice full of affection. As he walked around with his arms outstretched, looking for his rope, something snagged on his foot and he nearly fell. It had been too yielding to be a rock. Thinking he’d found Geralt’s bag, he squatted down and looked for it with his fingers. He encountered something soft. Studying it closer, he felt knotted yarn and something even softer on the other side.

“Is this a really fancy cloak? No, there’s no hood or clasp… Geralt, were you wearing a blanket? You’re roaming around the countryside with no horse, very little equipment from what I can tell, and wearing a blanket. What happened to you?”

Jaskier received no response, but he hadn’t expected any. Geralt didn’t need to use the potion he had just taken very often, but Jaskier had witnessed its effects before. It was for ‘die for a few hours or die permanently’ kind of situations. It could heal a lot of damage, but Geralt was completely incapacitated while it worked its magic. Jaskier lay down next to him, careful to not touch in case he accidentally disturbed him and disrupted the healing process, and tossed the blanket over both of them. He tucked the edges under Geralt as best he could, trapping the heat they’d generate together under the cocoon. It was a familiar position, though usually they had more contact to maximise the effects.

“Remember our first autumn together?” Jaskier asked. He could laugh about the incident now, but for years he’d carried only guilt.


	3. Day 4: Betrayal

Day 4: Betrayal

Jaskier couldn’t believe the good fortune that had fallen in his lap. For three years he’d scraped by, performing in taverns and inns and street corners, all theoretical knowledge and skill at his instrument, but for some reason people weren’t entirely captivated and entranced by his songs. He knew the steps he needed to take in order to build the perfect ballad, but something was missing, some magical ingredient that turned his meticulously crafted melodies into legends that people would sing along to. He had even started to question if sating his wanderlust was a foolish endeavour and should he just return to Oxenfurt to pursue an academic career. And then -- when he was hiding under a table in Gulet, trying to evade four men who were not impressed with him courting their sister -- that missing component had appeared in his life.

He’d spent the rest of the summer with Geralt, witnessing fantastical feats that inspired him to give his songs that something they’d been lacking. Heroic deeds got people riled up in taverns, and they joined him with passion when he sang about wyverns and griffins and wraiths, and the man who slew them. Witchers were almost as mythical as the creatures they killed, and almost as hated. But Jaskier could say that his songs had elevated people’s appreciation of the profession to a new level, and only be exaggerating a little.

As autumn approached, he’d given thought to wintering. He didn’t know if Geralt was planning to take a break, but he certainly needed one. His first winter on the road had been utterly miserable, and he would never repeat the mistake of not preparing for the season again. His strategy was to find a wealthy and lonely widow or widower and settle in for the cold months. He had succeeded beautifully the last two years, living in warm luxury for the price of pleasure and companionship, but now winter was nearly upon them and he hadn’t done any groundwork since he’d been travelling with Geralt so closely. The witcher kept up a murderous pace, always on the move even though he had nowhere to go. Except towards monsters. Which was exactly what Jaskier needed for his songs.

The evening found them by a small lake, surrounded by low hills on all sides. There were no trees nearby, giving them good visibility -- and very little shelter from the wind. Summer’s heat had already faded, leaving the nights increasingly chilly. Jaskier took out his bedroll and tried to get comfortable.

“You’d think flat ground would be more flat,” he grumbled as he lay down. They wouldn’t sleep yet, but he was tired, and the blanket on top of him felt heavenly. Geralt was building the fire, fighting against the brisk breeze that seemed to be coming from all directions.

“You should look for shelter,” Geralt said, brow wrinkled in concentration as he tried to protect the sparks he was striking.

“For the winter?” Jaskier asked. “I’ve been thinking about that. But I don’t want to miss whatever monsters frolic around in the snow. I’m assuming you don’t stop for the season.”

“I do.”

“Oh? Is witchering not profitable in winter? I’d imagine travel to be a nightmare at least, depending on how much snow there will be. I once knew a chap who used to swim in snow, can you believe that? He claimed it was beneficial for his health. I think he was a bit cuckoo. I’ve heard that in Skellige they cut holes in ice and go swimming there, but never in snow. Doesn’t that sound stupid to you too? How does one even accomplish such a feat.”

Geralt grunted. He’d finally gotten the fire going, but the flames were having trouble growing because of the gusty wind. He held his hands close, nearly roasting them.

Jaskier observed his efforts with a measure of amusement. The big strong witcher down on all fours, cursing at a small flame. Not that Geralt was exceptionally large. In full armour and with a menacing sword strapped to his back, he certainly looked larger than life, but once the armour came off and he was just in his shirtsleeves like now, he was actually very slim, and not any taller than Jaskier. He’d been surprised the first time he saw Geralt without his layers of leather. That was when he’d first started to realise that witchers weren’t quite as different from humans as he’d been led to believe.

“Reckon it’ll rain tonight?” Jaskier asked. The sky was overcast, but he didn’t think the clouds looked dark enough to hold rain. He was frequently wrong in his assessments though, not having lived at nature’s mercy for long.

“No. Windy as shit though,” Geralt said. His fire was starting to look good, and he sat back. As soon as the barricade of his body was removed, a strong gust of wind hit their campsite and the flames fizzled out. Jaskier’s ears burned from the string of swears Geralt unleashed at the smoking wood.

“Watch out, you’re sounding much too irritated to keep up the facade of emotionlessness,” Jaskier said, fully aware that he was poking an annoyed bear. Geralt glared at him before stomping off to his saddlebags on the other side of the firepit. That was another thing Jaskier had learned: witchers were far from being incapable of experiencing emotion. They refrained from displaying any publicly, that was true, but once he’d befriended one and gotten to share his downtime in private, he’d learned that Geralt was a moody, cranky bastard, but also very caring and tender, especially with his horse.

“It is damnably cold though,” Jaskier said. Whenever a harder gust hit, it blew straight through his bedding and clothes, leaving him chilled to the core. “Do you mind giving me your blanket? What with me being just a feeble human very much in need of warmth, and since your fire is… well, let us not mention your fire.”

Geralt lifted his gaze to Jaskier, and for a moment he could’ve sworn he saw alarm in the pale features. The look was gone in an instance and Geralt balled up his blanket and tossed it at Jaskier. He caught it and spread it over himself, sighing in satisfaction as the twin layer of cloth blocked the wind.

“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver. It must be so nice to not be bothered by the cold. I definitely envy you there, even if I tend to run hot, this wind is a bit much. Without it, the evening would be sort of pleasant. Might even play my lute for entertainment. Have you ever played any instruments?”

“No.”

“Of course, not essential for survival or battle, why would you learn something so inconsequential, right? The pure joy of it hardly makes it worth your time.”

“You know an awful lot about witchers,” Geralt said, not at all kindly.

“Oh no, he’s taken offence!” Jaskier cried, barely keeping from laughing. “Sorry, I’m just bored, and hungry. Do we have anything that doesn’t need heating up?”

Geralt stood up and came over to deposit a handful of nuts and dried berries and a strip of jerky into Jaskier’s waiting palms. As he did so, his fingertips brushed against Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier barely suppressed a wince at how cold they were.

“Goodness Geralt, are you sure you’re okay without the blanket? I mean I know you are, but it doesn’t feel like it. Or is this one of those witcher energy saving things?”

“Heart, actually. Slow,” Geralt grunted as he sat down.

“Okay, that makes sense, I suppose. I trust you to say if you need the blanket back, loath as I would be to part from it,” Jaskier said. He brought his hands inside the cocoon of cloth and started eating his cold dinner. It wasn’t particularly filling in such a small quantity, but it would keep him on the road. He was so focussed on his own meal that he didn’t realise Geralt wasn’t eating any, occupied instead by folding the empty pouch away that typically held his travel rations.

The sun started reaching for the horizon under the clouds. Jaskier drank some water and lay down. They’d usually perform small tasks or just sit by the fire and talk in the evenings, but since they had no fire, it would soon be too dark to do anything, and sitting by a pile of slightly charred logs didn’t sound appealing. Jaskier wished Geralt a good night and closed his eyes. The howling of the wind was a soothing lullaby, accompanying him into deep sleep.

*****

The temperature had dropped even lower when Jaskier woke up. He was warm and snug in his nest, with only the tip of his nose poking out, but his bladder demanded him to get up or risk having an accident. Greatly disgruntled, he stumbled a few steps away in the dark to take care of his urgent business. At least the wind had finally died down, but the chill left in its wake immediately penetrated his clothes. His breath misted in the air, proving that he wasn’t just imagining how cold it was.

When he returned to the campsite, he stepped on the twigs they’d tried to burn earlier, cursing out loud when a sharp edge hit the side of his foot. As the words left his mouth, he realised he’d probably woken Geralt.

“Sorry, too dark for my human eyes.”

He expected a disparaging answer, but there wasn’t any. He frowned. Usually Geralt reacted to the smallest of noises, immediately up and alert in case some beast was coming to eat them. Now he heard no sound of movement.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked. He turned towards where he thought the witcher would be, and crouched lower. His seeking hands found Geralt after a moment of fumbling around. He was lying curled up on his bedroll, wrapped in his cloak. Jaskier nudged his shoulder, ready to withdraw swiftly in case he woke up swinging, but nothing happened.

“Hey? What’s wrong?” he asked. Still receiving nothing in response, he squatted down and put his hand on Geralt. By the feel of it, he’d found the shoulder again. As he held his hand there, he felt how intensely Geralt was shivering, betraying how cold he was.

Jaskier felt horror rise along his spine as realisation dawned. He’d basically guilted Geralt into giving his blanket to him, thinking he’d be unaffected by the cold. But yet again, the evidence that witchers weren’t quite as far from humans as they led everyone to believe was right in front of him, shivering miserably. Like a fool, he had thought Geralt would tell him if he needed the blanket himself, but of course he hadn’t, not after Jaskier had made such a show of how fragile he was.

“I’m such an arse! Forgive me, Geralt. Uh, hang on,” Jaskier said and hurried to his bedroll. He grabbed everything in his arms and returned to Geralt’s side. The witcher still hadn’t woken up. Worry gnawed at Jaskier’s insides but he pushed it aside. Since he couldn’t see much on the cloudy night, he felt with his hands. Geralt was curled up into a tight ball, with his hands between his thighs. Jaskier pulled one out, shocked at how freezing cold the fingers were.

“This isn’t good,” he noted. “Geralt, wake up!”

Jaskier punched him in the shoulder to emphasise his command, finally rousing him.

“Whuh?”

“You are an idiot! Come on, unfold so I’ll fit better.”

“... huh?”

Jaskier felt his heart beating very rapidly. Had his bladder not disturbed his sleep, he would’ve woken up next to a dead witcher in the morning. The thought made him angry, mostly at himself. He laid down next to Geralt on his bedroll, facing him. He slipped his hand behind his back, feeling the taut, shivering muscles there, and pulled him snug against his chest. Geralt seemed to finally catch on to what was happening and he wrapped his arms and legs around Jaskier. He was distressingly cold along his entire length, making Jaskier gasp when they came into contact, but he hugged him back, making sure they were as tight against each other as possible. Reaching with his top hand, Jaskier spread both blankets over them.

“You’re a curious creature,” Jaskier said after a moment. Geralt was still shivering against him, but it felt less convulsive now. “You make yourself look bigger, meaner, completely impassive to cold and pain and emotion, yet you fit perfectly in my arms. I may be an expert of stories and false surfaces, but for you that’s life. Half of what you are is a myth, protective stories that keep people from finding out the truth. Yet you’ve allowed me to come close enough to see what’s behind the veil. You’ve shown me great trust in that, and I betrayed that trust by not seeing what you presented to me. You let me experience the human that you are, and I kept seeing the monster that you aren’t. For that, I’m truly, deeply sorry.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt whispered. He didn’t sound entirely present yet.

“I’m here,” Jaskier said and rubbed Geralt’s back. He made a soft sound, something between a moan and sigh, and Jaskier felt a wave of protectiveness rush over him. Never in his life had he imagined he would hold a witcher in his arms, and feel like murdering anyone that meant to harm him. That was the moment their friendship truly began. Jaskier had accidentally wormed his way under Geralt’s armour, and what he found there he took to heart. He couldn’t be afraid of Geralt as he saw him, and never again would he be fooled by his intimidation tactics.

Jaskier clenched his arms tighter and brought his chin against the top of Geralt’s head. He was comfortable inside the cocoon, and Geralt was starting to warm up, feeling less like an icicle against him. He allowed his eyes to fall shut. They’d need to have an honest and open discussion in the morning, but for now, Jaskier was satisfied to just lie there and let sleep claim him, feeling absurdly content with the witcher in his arms.


	4. Day 3: Cursed

Day 3: Cursed

Jaskier woke up when the rising sun reached deep inside the well. He yawned and rolled over, hitting his nose against Geralt’s shoulder. The impact wasn’t hard, but Geralt released a soft whimper. Jaskier frowned. A small bump shouldn’t have caused that much pain, especially after Geralt had ingested the potion. He sat up and looked at Geralt now that he could see properly. His mouth pressed into a thin line. Geralt looked terrible, even by his standards. The paleness of his face was accentuated by how sunken and dark the skin around his eyes looked, and how hollow his cheeks had become. Jaskier pulled the quilt aside and saw what his probing hands had failed to convey to him in his frenzy the previous night: Geralt had lost quite a bit of weight. And his left arm wasn’t just casually draped across his stomach, it was held fast in a dirty sling. The shoulder was covered by his shirt, but Jaskier could tell the shape was off.

“You’re in a bad way, my friend,” Jaskier noted. The task of getting Geralt out of the well seemed almost insurmountable. No matter how much the potion had healed him, he wouldn’t be climbing out on his own. “But don’t worry, we’ll sort you out. Somehow.”

Jaskier looked up. The well looked even deeper from the bottom than it had felt coming down. His rope still dangled from the cross beam. He stood up and caught it. Geralt was too heavy for him to haul up, but he had a good horse. A plan started to form in his mind. Tie the rope around Geralt, climb up, and attach the other end to Geryon’s saddle. Simple and easy, use the real muscle around, not the sad excuse Jaskier had on his arms. He grabbed the end of the rope and stepped towards Geralt. He was forced to stop almost immediately.

“And of course it’s too short,” he said and sighed rather theatrically. He let the rope go and returned to Geralt’s side. He hadn’t moved at all.

“Geralt, wake up. As always, my perfect plan is not so perfect after all. I need you to stand up.”

Geralt was slow to respond. Jaskier saw the exact moment he surfaced from deeper sleep: his face scrunched up in pain and he grunted softly, tensing up all along his body.

“Hey, easy. What’s hurting?”

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Came to your rescue last night, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Now answer my question.”

“What was it?”

Jaskier frowned. If Geralt had hit his head, he might be even worse off than he’d initially assessed. And they were still at least half a day’s ride from the nearest town, not to mention stuck at the bottom of a well. He did not appreciate their prospects.

“What hurts?” Jaskier asked, speaking slowly and clearly.

“Shoulder. Back. Ribs. Legs. Head. Neck. Hands. Feet.”

“So basically everything, got it. Hopefully that’s just from lying down on the cold stones all night. Does anything hurt really badly? Like feel broken?”

“Potion.”

“We did this last night. You already drank your last potion.”

“I know. Hazy.”

Jaskier felt relief flood through him. Evidently the potent potion still hadn’t run its course, leaving Geralt slightly addled. Which meant getting him to coordinate and stand was probably not going to happen yet.

“Okay, we can rest a bit longer. Not like we have a schedule or anything,” Jaskier said and lay back down next to Geralt. He thought about his upcoming performance, finding it a trifle. The earnings certainly wouldn’t have hurt his poor slim purse, but missing it felt truly inconsequential. He snuggled closer to Geralt’s side, carefully monitoring him in case he hit an especially sore spot. He shouldn’t have bothered, Geralt was already out.

The sun did very little to warm up the well. Jaskier stayed close to Geralt under the quilt, but he could do nothing about the damp rocks under them. Typically they’d have both their bedrolls combined between them and the ground, and both blankets around them. Whenever the weather got even slightly colder, they’d sleep together. Jaskier was usually fine on his own, but he definitely preferred the extra heat from another body in close proximity. It being Geralt only made it better, someone he trusted with his life and wanted near him.

“I was thinking about the first time we shared a bedroll. Remember, by the lake, when you thought you could fool my young naive self into thinking you were indestructible. That failed spectacularly, but I saved you. Not that you appreciated it much. You were so mad the following morning you were ready to toss me into the lake, but I knew you wouldn’t, it was all posturing. If you were willing to let yourself freeze to death in order to keep me warm, there was no way you would ever hurt me on purpose. And you came around eventually once you realised how much better it is to be honest and occasionally lean on me too.”

Jaskier smiled and closed his eyes. They’d shared many adventures together over the years. He knew they weren’t out of danger yet, but he felt calmer now. He had a plan, even if a shoddy one, and Geralt seemed to be doing better. At least he didn’t fear that he’d expire within the next breath or two. He was still in very poor condition and Jaskier needed to find out why, but he was with him now. No harm would come to his witcher while he was under his protection.

*****

Jaskier woke up with a start. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, hadn’t even felt tired, but apparently his body had decided differently. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, twisting to look at Geralt. Pain was written clearly on his features, scrunching his brows and tightening his mouth.

“You could’ve woken me up,” Jaskier said. Geralt only grunted in response. “But never mind that. Can you detail how your injuries feel now? Any chance you could stand up?”

“No,” Geralt said. Jaskier frowned. Geralt may have been a moody bugger at the best of times, but this level of gruffness was unusual. He seemed to have reached the end of his considerable endurance, at the most inconvenient time.

“Move your feet,” Jaskier said, hoping a direct order that he could follow would give Geralt something to focus on. He looked at the worn boots, and saw a small jerk in each foot.

“Very good! Now the right fingers.”

Geralt obeyed, making a feeble fist. Jaskier considered it good enough. Hopefully the potion had healed him enough that it was safe to move him to get proper help.

“Geralt, can you look at me?” Jaskier asked, earning an annoyed glare in response. “Sorry, had to check. You’re not exactly filling me with confidence when it comes to your level of consciousness here.”

“Listening.”

“Okay. Right. So. The plan is this: I will tie the end of the rope around you, climb up, fasten it to my horse, and pull you up. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said quietly.

“Problem is, the rope is a teeny bit too short, so you’ll have to stand up. Think you can manage that?”

Geralt hesitated for longer than Jaskier would’ve liked. He closed his eyes, as if mentally weighing his capability.

“I mean, if it’s too much, maybe I could fashion an extension of sorts from our clothes. Actually, that’s not a bad idea!”

“I can stand,” Geralt said. “Help me up.”

Jaskier took Geralt’s right hand and pulled him to sit up. He had to immediately interfere when Geralt’s eyes lost their focus and he slumped sideways. Jaskier held him, feeling too many ribs through his shirt.

“That’s it, I’m taking my pants off, hang on,” he said.

“No, I can do it,” Geralt said, more strongly this time. He held his right hand up and Jaskier slipped beneath his shoulder. Holding onto Geralt’s waist, he managed to haul him to his feet, pushing him quickly against the wall for additional support. Geralt was breathing harshly, head leaned against Jaskier’s shoulder. He trembled violently, but somehow managed to stay upright.

“Hmm, ideally I’d tie the rope under your arms, but I’m thinking that’s not going to happen,” Jaskier said as he eyed the sling Geralt’s left arm was held in. He considered attaching the rope to his belt, but it was too short to reach, and the sword harness was too loosely fastened when going over only one shoulder. He realised the best he could do was tie it around Geralt's right wrist and hope no harm would come to the joint.

“Lean on the wall and don’t pass out, I’ll try to be quick,” Jaskier said after fastening the rope. Geralt nodded. He was already sweating heavily, his right arm dangling awkwardly against his head. Jaskier reached over him and grabbed the rope, eliciting a grunt from Geralt when he jostled him.

“Hang in there,” he said and started climbing. He wasn’t good at intense physical efforts, but the knowledge that his every movement transferred to Geralt through the rope urged him on. He pinched the material between his feet, wrapping and unwrapping it whenever he moved his hands higher. His arms started to shake halfway up and he had to stop for a moment to rest, keeping himself up by his feet. He looked down and saw Geralt hunched against the wall, hanging most of his weight from the rope, but still conscious and trying to hold himself up.

“Almost there!” Jaskier shouted. There was no acknowledgement from Geralt. He took a deep breath and continued climbing. His arms felt weak, like they had already spent what strength they held within. He grimaced and kept going. The rope chafed against his fingers, the calloused skin grinding against the rough material every time he pulled himself up, but he ignored the discomfort. If he fell and hurt himself now, they would both die.

When Jaskier was a hand’s width from reaching the edge of the well, he was suddenly jerked towards the centre. He was in the middle of wrapping the rope around his feet, but the movement disrupted him and he slid down, releasing a quick cry before he managed to clench his hands tight enough to stop his fall. He cursed as the rope burned the skin off his palms, but held onto it and secured his legs before easing his hands off. His palms stung, but he was more worried about what had caused the violent movement of the rope. He looked down and saw that Geralt was dangling limply near the centre of the well, his knees almost touching the ground.

“Shit, Geralt!” Jaskier shouted. Geralt didn’t even twitch. Steeling himself, Jaskier looked up to see how far he’d fallen. The edge looked to be about a man’s height away. Not too bad, considering Jaskier had felt like he’d fallen at least halfway down. His hands wanted nothing to do with the rope, but he forced them to grab the coarse material again. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Jaskier continued to ascend. Tears rose to his eyes but he ignored them, keeping his focus solely on the task.

The sun was directly above him when Jaskier hoisted himself over the edge of the well. He allowed himself a moment to lie on the ground and catch his breath. His hands hurt abominably, throbbing in time with his quick pulse, but he couldn’t allow himself to wallow in his misery. Geralt was still down there and he was hurting so much worse. Jaskier quickly wrapped handkerchiefs around his hands and dragged himself to his feet. He started untying the knots around the wooden beam, managing half of them before he realised what he was about to do. With Geralt hanging limply off the rope, it would plummet down the moment Jaskier got it loose.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted, his voice echoing in the well. He would not climb down to rouse Geralt, only to climb back up and have him faint halfway through the operation again. But he needed a little bit more slack to the rope so that he could attach it to Geryon’s saddle.

Belatedly, Jaskier realised he hadn’t seen his mount. He turned away from the well and called for the beast, heart accelerating furiously. If the horse had gotten loose and left, they were in tremendous trouble.

“Geryon!”

“Yeah?” he heard from the well.

“Not you, the damned horse! Oh! Geralt!”

Geryon chose that moment to appear from behind the tree to which Jaskier had tied him the previous night. He hadn’t seen the thick bush next to it in the dark, dense enough with most of its leaves still attached to hide the dark grey horse.

“What?” Geralt asked, sounding very faint.

“I cannot deal with this,” Jaskier muttered to himself. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, re-centering himself. One thing at a time.

“Geralt, try to stand up, you’re pulling the rope too much. Geryon, come here.”

Jaskier stepped away from the well and went to his horse. The gelding came to meet him eagerly enough, nuzzling his hand although it was empty. Jaskier gave him a few pats and untied the line from the tree. He led the horse to the well, slipped the reins around his arm, and tested the rope dangling from the well mechanism. When he looked down, he saw that Geralt was leaning against the wall again, holding his arm up as high as he could, shaking so badly Jaskier could see it all the way from the top.

“Hang on,” he said and started untying the last two knots. If he fumbled now and dropped the rope… he shook his head. His fingers were nimble, they had to be in order to play the lute as well as he could, he would not drop the rope. With a pounding heart, he finally managed to loosen it. He wrapped it around his left hand and pulled Geryon closer. After some goading and pushing, he managed to manoeuvre the horse to the desired position and tie the rope to a stirrup that he lengthened as far as it would go. Even then he had to pull on the rope a bit, forcing Geralt on his tiptoes.

“Okay, it’s fastened now. Just… try to survive,” Jaskier hollered down the well. He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t want to see Geralt prepare himself for what promised to be an excruciatingly painful experience. He grabbed Geryon’s reins and slowly started leading him away from the well. He heard an unpleasant scraping sound and winced. Geralt’s swords might need some tending to after they were done. He took a few more steps, and the scraping sound stopped, replaced by an agonised scream. Jaskier almost froze then, but forced himself to keep walking. Geralt must’ve rotated to a position that stressed his shoulder. Nothing he could do about it now. Just keep going and get it over with.

When Jaskier saw a pale hand appear from behind the stone rim, he left Geryon to walk and hurried to guide Geralt over the edge. It wasn’t smooth, but finally Geralt was lying on the wilted grass, his harsh breaths sounding like sobs. Jaskier didn’t want to leave him, but he had to halt Geryon and untie the rope from the stirrup lest they have an accident if something spooked the horse.

When the mount was secured to a tree, Jaskier returned to Geralt, finding him unconscious. He knelt down and untied the rope from around his wrist. The skin looked red and slightly swollen but otherwise alright. He’d worried about dislocating or breaking the joint, but as he tested the mobility, it appeared that they had managed to avoid that additional hurt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, not too loudly. He hated to bring his friend back to awareness, but he needed to check his condition and get them moving. Geralt frowned heavily, assaulted by pain before he found his bearings. “Are you with me?”

Geralt hummed in reply. His right hand went to his left shoulder, touching very lightly.

“Umm, should I take a look at that shoulder?” Jaskier asked. He didn’t want to, wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do to help, but the need to offer assistance arose regardless.

“Yeah,” Geralt whispered. Jaskier hid his surprise and started unbuttoning Geralt’s black shirt. It was in desperate need of a wash, but it was more or less intact. Once he had the small cloth-covered buttons tucked out of their holes, he carefully peeled the shirt aside, grimacing when he saw the mess beneath. The skin was swollen and bruised, standing in sharp contrast to Geralt’s pale complexion. Jaskier looked at the worst part more closely, seeing that the collarbone -- much more pronounced than it should’ve been -- had an unnatural curve in it. Jaskier shouldn’t have been able to see the bones in Geralt’s shoulder, but he was noticeably thinner than when they’d parted ways a couple of months ago. The entire shoulder looked miss-shapen and wrong. But the injury wasn’t recent, the wounds had already turned to scars, though angry red ones.

“Can you move your arm at all?” Jaskier asked.

“No,” Geralt said quietly. Sweat was beading on his forehead despite the coolness of the day.

“You were in desperate need of a healer long before you fell into that well, weren’t you?”

“Saw one. He fucked up.”

“This has been healed?!” Jaskier felt murderous rage towards whoever had left Geralt in such poor condition. He should’ve found him sooner. The thought that Geralt had been walking around like this -- he drew in a deep breath. Losing his patience now would accomplish nothing. They had half a day’s ride to reach the nearest town, more if they had to go very slowly, which seemed likely. Jaskier closed his eyes and tried to visualise where they were on a map. By his estimation, they were just over a week’s ride away from Ellander. Nenneke would sort Geralt out, or care for him while they sent for a mage who could deal with the injury. Jaskier didn’t know the town he was heading towards, couldn’t even remember its name, but he doubted it would have a competent enough healer. It was their immediate destination though. Depending on how the trip would go, Jaskier was prepared to leave Geralt there and ride to the Temple of Melitele himself, begging for Nenneke to come and put his friend back together properly.

“The nearest town is half a day’s ride away. Can you sit in the saddle by yourself for that long? And be honest with me now,” Jaskier said. Geralt’s eyes found his.

“I don’t know.”

Jaskier huffed a mirthless chuckle. “Well that’s honest, if decidedly unhelpful.”

“Sorry,” Geralt said, sounding uncomfortably subdued. Jaskier retrieved his water skin from the saddlebag and gave Geralt a sip. While he let it sit, he downed half the skin himself, before giving Geralt another small sip. The eagerness with which he reached for the water told Jaskier he hadn’t had any in a while. Luckily he had another full skin in his other bag. And a bottle of wine.

“Let’s try with you alone in the saddle first. If we’re doubling, I’d rather go bareback and I really don’t want to leave my stuff behind.”

Geralt shot him a guilty glance and Jaskier realised he’d said the wrong thing. Now the damned stubborn witcher would hang onto the saddle if it killed him, just to save Jaskier the inconvenience of replacing his gear.

“Geralt, it’s just stuff. We’ll be fine for one day without anything on us, and when we reach the town, I can buy everything we need. But if you fall off and crack your head open, that’s rather irreversible. Do you understand?”

“I can do it,” Geralt said. Jaskier tried not to sigh audibly. Though if Geralt had enough spirit to be difficult, it bode well for his ability to stay upright.

“Okay, let’s give it a try then,” Jaskier said. He tightened Geryon’s girth and made sure the stirrups matched after he’d moved the other. Jaskier spotted a tree stump nearby and led the horse there, and returned to Geralt by the well. He was drinking some more water slowly, leaning awkwardly on his right elbow while also handling the skin with the same hand. He looked to be cold with the way he was hunched into himself, but Jaskier had forgotten his quilt down the well and as fine as it was, he wasn’t going to climb down to retrieve it. All Geralt had was his worn travelling cloak, and it seemed to be doing little to ward off the chilly autumn day.

“Up we go,” Jaskier said. He waited while Geralt put the stopper on the nozzle. He was alarmingly uncoordinated, and Jaskier thought he could detect a tremble in his fingers. Again the anger at how poorly his friend had been treated threatened to rise, but his thoughts were interrupted by Geralt holding his right hand out to him. Jaskier clasped it and pulled Geralt to his feet. He swayed for a moment, but managed to stabilise himself before Jaskier could suggest he should sit back down. They made their way to Geryon, Jaskier supporting Geralt with his arm around his bony hips.

Getting Geralt up on the horse was a precarious operation. He got up on the tree stump on his own, but getting his foot through a stirrup when his balance was off was more challenging. They finally managed, and although Geralt didn’t have to step high to make it on Geryon’s back, Jaskier still had to do most of the heavy lifting. But once he was seated, he nodded approvingly.

“Still good?” Jaskier asked. He grabbed the reins after receiving confirmation and started leading Geryon, going at a very slow walk at first. Once Geralt claimed he was steady enough for a swifter pace, Jaskier increased his speed to a regular walk. He kept glancing back to see how Geralt was doing, ready to go slower or stop completely at the first sign of distress, but so far he held up well enough.

They walked for a couple of hours without incident. As the sun slipped lower in front of them, Jaskier noticed that Geralt needed a break. They probably should’ve taken one earlier, but he wanted to reach the town as fast as possible. Geralt was sweating profusely and swaying in the saddle, squeezing Geryon’s mane with his right hand in a grip so tight it could’ve bent metal. Jaskier halted the horse and looked up.

“We stopped,” Geralt said. His eyes were closed and he was breathing rapidly. Jaskier placed a hand on his lower back, feeling him tremble.

“We did indeed. It’s time to rest for a moment.”

“No, keep going.”

“I’m not risking you falling off. And really Geralt, haven’t you done enough falling down lately?” Jaskier asked with a grin, trying to smother the sickening worry gnawing at his insides. It was hard to tell with his already pallid complexion, but Geralt was looking alarmingly wan, as if he was one good poke away from collapsing. Having him lie down for a bit would be worth the hassle of getting him on and off the horse.

“How long?” Geralt asked, speaking through clenched jaws.

“Care to specify?”

“Town.”

“How long until we reach the town? Hmm, at the speed we’re going, and including this stop and at least one more, I’d say we’ll reach it at sundown.”

“Keep going,” Geralt repeated. Jaskier wanted to argue, but Geralt’s eyes found his. He saw exhaustion and a lot of pain in them, but also quiet desperation and determination. Geralt could endure a great deal, but he was reaching the point where his body would give in. His gaze told Jaskier that if he relaxed his iron will even a little, he would not be getting up again, physically too spent to drag up even the remembrance of reserves he was running on now.

Jaskier took out his water skin, opened it and held it for Geralt to drink, not trusting his arm to support the weight. Geralt took only a few sips before turning his head away. Jaskier put it away and grabbed the bottle of wine instead. Geralt raised his eyebrows at it, but drained a good quarter of the bottle in one go when Jaskier offered it to him. Jaskier took a few sips himself before putting it away and grabbing some jerky to munch on. Geralt refused the food, as Jaskier had expected.

“On we go then,” Jaskier said through his mouthful of dry meat. He pretended he couldn’t hear the soft whimper Geralt released when he pulled Geryon forwards. As they walked, he kept glancing back, liking what he saw less and less as the evening progressed. Geralt’s position slumped gradually, and his breathing grew quicker and shallower. Every rougher step had him groaning in pain, and he kept his eyes closed. Jaskier wasn’t sure which would give out first: Geralt’s fortitude or his ability to witness his friend being tormented.

Jaskier walked quietly for the entire trip. The silence oppressed him and dampened his spirits further, but Geralt wasn’t capable of holding a conversation, and Jaskier felt wrong talking at him, as if he wasn’t there. When Geralt was being moody or not participating on purpose, he had no trouble holding a monologue for hours, but this was different. Geralt couldn’t tell him to shut up if the talking genuinely bothered him, and Jaskier didn’t feel like chattering when he was wound so tight with stress he felt like he might snap.

*****

When they reached the town, Jaskier could’ve cried from relief. The sun had gone down hours ago and he was exhausted. Geralt was slumped against Geryon’s neck, only half-conscious at best, moaning quietly. Jaskier wouldn’t have been surprised if there were some tears mixed with the sweat dripping down his face. He knocked on the gate, already closed for the night, and managed to talk the guard into opening it for them. Accompanied by Jaskier’s profuse thank yous, they walked through.

The town was small, as expected. Jaskier saw one street that was lined with shops and houses, and that ended in a market square. The nobleman he was to perform for lived in a grand mansion outside the town, not unlike the abandoned one whose well they had spent the night in. He asked for directions to a healer from the gate guard and headed down the indicated route, away from the main street. The alley he followed was narrow and dirty. Jaskier was starting to suspect he had taken a wrong turn when he stepped out onto a street that was much grander than the main street, lined with houses that had decorative facades and several floors. Clearly a wealthier part of town, one where he would expect to find a mage. He followed the road until he reached the end, and there was the single storey red brick house the guard had described. Jaskier led Geryon to the door and knocked.

A red-haired woman greeted him. She was either young, or had the agelessness of a sorcerer. Jaskier hoped for the latter, they needed all the magic they could get. He pointed behind him.

“My friend is badly hurt. Can you help?”

“A witcher?” the woman asked after a brief glance. Jaskier couldn’t tell from her tone or expression how she felt about the profession. “What is the damage?”

“An older injury in the left shoulder, and he recently fell a long distance, but I think the potion took care of that.”

“Potions do not choose what to heal, nor do they work chronologically. Bring him in.”

Jaskier put his hand on Geralt’s cheek and called his name. While Geralt climbed back to consciousness, Jaskier removed his right foot from the stirrup and circled around the horse.

“Can you dismount on your own?” he asked. Geralt looked at him with eyes that were only half-open, his mouth slightly open. He nodded, but Jaskier wasn’t convinced he had understood the question. He was proven wrong when Geralt swung his leg over Geryon’s back and slumped to the ground with none of his usual grace. Jaskier caught him and slipped his right arm over his shoulder, feeling Geralt tremble against him. They shuffled inside with Jaskier bearing most of Geralt’s weight.

“Put him down there,” the red-haired woman said and indicated a high wooden table with steps leading up to it. Jaskier dragged Geralt on it and lay him down. As soon as Geralt was horizontal, his eyes rolled up and slipped closed.

“Let me secure the horse, I’ll be right back,” Jaskier said and hurried outside, fearing that his new mount had had enough of him and escaped, but there he was, sniffing the mage’s lawn. Jaskier tied him to the fence, loosened the girth, and returned inside just in time to hear Geralt scream.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked as he crossed the room to Geralt’s side. The woman stopped him with a hand held out.

“Examining. Whoever interfered with his shoulder ought to go back to wherever they received their education and demand compensation for wasted time. Or better yet, take up farming instead, a plow would have done less damage.”

“Can you fix him?”

“Interesting manner in which to present the question,” she said while lifting her hands to Geralt’s head. She pressed her fingers against his temples, eliciting a whimper. “I can heal his ribs and the various muscle strains easily enough, but his shoulder is rather troublesome. It will require a great deal from me to rebuild. Do you understand what that means for you?”

“Are we talking about payment?” Jaskier asked. The woman nodded. “The thing is, umm, sorry, didn’t catch your name?”

“It is Ewa. Stop hedging.”

“Ewa, I don’t actually have much coin on me now, but I have a performance coming up tomorrow and I will be handsomely rewarded for it. You will receive my earnings in their entirety, I swear this. Please, help him.”

“You expect me to trust you? Righting this mess will require extensive healing, a great personal sacrifice from me. I will not give so much freely without fair compensation.”

“And you shouldn’t! Please, I absolutely will pay you everything tomorrow. I will come here straight after my performance. I will --- I will leave you my horse, as proof of my intention to return. If I don’t come back, you can have him.”

“I have no interest in your steed,” Ewa said. Before Jaskier could despair, she continued: “But I am amenable to your suggestion. We will continue this discussion after I have healed your witcher. You may think of something better to offer while I work, but be silent.”

“Thank you, I will. Anything that is mine to give, you shall have, as long as you help him.”

Jaskier rubbed his tired eyes, missing the brief grin flashing on Ewa’s face. Relief was making him loosen up and feel the long hours on the road, suddenly too exhausted to do anything but sit on the chair Ewa pointed to him. He followed her through a haze, hearing snippets of her mutterings, like ‘complete mess’ and ‘what sort of an idiot thinks the clavicle anchors _there_ ’ and ‘where is the acromion’. He tried not to listen too closely. What he needed to know was that Geralt was being properly looked after, the details in all their gory horror were irrelevant.

*****

Jaskier woke up with a start when Ewa shook him. His neck immediately protested the movement and he massaged it. Sleeping in a chair was an art form he hadn’t mastered.

“Your witcher is sleeping now. I have done what I could, but the condition you brought him in limited me severely.”

“What do you mean? Is he okay?” Jaskier asked. He looked at the table, but Geralt wasn’t there.

“I had to rebuild the shoulder completely. The incompetent ass who fiddled with it made a mess of things, and I had to first undo that. And then create new bones to replace the lost ones which is usually not a problem, but your witcher was so low on reserves I had very little raw material to utilise, leaving it very fragile. Not something I could have even attempted with a human, but he bore it well enough. He will be fine, but not immediately. The shoulder will have to heal naturally the rest of the way, and then he will need to rehabilitate it. And for all that is fair, feed him adequately while he recovers.”

Jaskier stared at Ewa, barely able to grasp what she was telling him. She must’ve noticed his confusion, for she crossed her arms and sighed.

“I do not know what sort of a set-up you have with him, but I can tell he has been starved for at least a month, maybe more, difficult to tell with mutants. I hope you treat your horse better.”

“Wait, what? Geralt is not my pet! He’s my friend!”

“Three times you have not denied when I have called him yours, I consider that confirmation. In any case, I have decided on the collateral. You will leave both your horse and your witcher here. When I see your earnings, no later than tomorrow, I will choose which of the three I will keep. You may bargain, but I have the right to take at least two units.”

Jaskier felt like he was in a dream. Things were moving too swiftly, he was bombarded with information that he couldn’t absorb. What he did grasp onto was that Geralt was in danger.

“The money and the horse, those are yours, but the witcher is not mine to give. These were our terms, correct?”

“Not quite, but we will discuss this when you return. Now please leave.”

“Wait, can I see Geralt before I go? I need to know he’s alright, otherwise our deal is off.”

Ewa frowned at him, but Jaskier held his ground. She nodded approvingly and motioned for him to follow. They walked through a door Jaskier hadn’t noticed before and entered what looked like her bedroom. There was a dresser, several shelves filled with books fastened to the wall, and a very notably empty bed.

“Where is he, if you’ve --”

“Relax, right here,” Ewa said and beckoned Jaskier over to one of the shelves on the wall. This one had books only on one end while the other end was occupied by a folded towel. Jaskier looked at it closely, and realised that there was a small doll, about the length of his hand, sleeping on the towel. Except that this doll looked an awful lot like Geralt. And it was breathing.

“Holy mother of all things purple, what did you do?”

“I do not have the space to keep a fully grown man, therefore I made him more conveniently sized. Do not fret, it is a harmless curse and I will undo it when you return with the coin.”

“Permission to sit on your bed?”

“Granted.”

Jaskier sunk down and held his head. This was too much. He knew mages and sorceresses and all magical creatures were capable of things he couldn’t even imagine, but he felt like his mind was at the very edge of what it could process. His friend had been turned into a miniature version of himself, and it was somehow Jaskier’s fault, though he couldn’t trace back to where he’d gone wrong.

“Is he in pain?” he asked, grasping for something he could understand.

“The shoulder will continue to pain him until it heals fully.”

“I mean from being small.”

“That would be most counterproductive considering how much trouble I went to to put him back together. Go to your performance and then return, he is perfectly fine here.”

“Alright,” Jaskier said, gathering himself. He stood up and looked at Geralt. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, though his tiny features did look a bit pinched with pain. His left arm was secured against his chest with wide bandages, preventing him from disturbing the shoulder. Had he been his regular size, Jaskier would’ve accepted that he was as hale as he could be at the moment.

“The sun is about to rise,” Ewa said. Jaskier glanced through the window and saw how light the sky was. He’d have to hurry to make it to the manor and prepare for his performance.

“I’ll probably be late, so please wait for me. I will be back before sunrise tomorrow, this I swear,” he said.

“It is all the same to me, I would not mind having a witcher to examine more closely. Calm down, I will not touch him while he is still yours. Sunrise tomorrow, that is our deal.”

*****

Jaskier gave the worst performance of his life that evening. He’d been running around all day, first trying to find transportation to the manor, then setting everything up there, trying to work miracles to make himself look presentable in the amount of time he had, eat hastily, suffer heinous indigestion because he ate too hastily, and try to play and sing without falling asleep on the stage. By the time he finished, gave his bows, visited the lady of the manor in a more private position, and then the son, he was ready to crawl into the nearest ditch just to get some rest, but he had to pester the head butler for his payment, which earned him disdainful looks, and beg for one of the departing nobles to let him ride along to reach the town. He was determined to run to Ewa’s the moment the carriage stopped, but he fell asleep and did not wake up when the servants detached the horses and parked the vehicle behind the stables.

The village baker’s loud whistling was Jaskier’s salvation. The sound penetrated his dreams when the man passed the stables on his way to the bakery, the fresh nettles he’d collected bunched in his hand. Jaskier rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around, utterly confused as to where he was. Finally the previous day came to him in its entirety, and he scrambled out of the carriage in horror. He slammed the door open and looked to the sky, noting with enormous relief that the sun was not yet above the horizon, though if he delayed for even one moment, it would be. He went through the route in his head, chose the correct direction, and started running.

Jaskier reached Ewa’s house just as the first rays were starting to blind him. He saw that Geryon was still in the yard, happily munching on grass, not even flicking an ear to greet him. He steadied his breathing and knocked on the door.

“Hello. Are you hurt?” a little girl asked him. Jaskier sputtered for a moment before he managed to say he was looking for Ewa. The girl returned inside the house and Jaskier followed, noting that the large room was empty, and the door to the bedroom was closed.

“Is Ewa with a patient?” Jaskier asked. The girl nodded.

“My ma has business with her. They’ve been in there for ages, I’m so bored. Who are you?”

“I’m Jaskier, pleasure to make your acquaintance. What is your name?”

“I’m Kamila. You look like a peacock.”

“Why thank you, Kamila. Peacocks are noble birds.”

Kamila laughed at that, her blonde curls bouncing with the movement. Jaskier estimated her to be somewhere between ten and thirteen. Before he could hear what she thought about peacocks, the door opened.

“Remember, tell him at least a full month. And I am always available again.”

“Thank you,” a plump blonde woman said. Her resemblance to her daughter was uncanny. Jaskier waited while she and Ewa talked about a herb she was to gather and how to prepare it. He was almost dozing off by the time the woman exclaimed that she’d forgotten her pouch. Kamila jumped up and ran to the bedroom, yelling that she’d get it. They all smiled at the child’s enthusiasm, and soon she appeared with a cloth satchel hooked over her shoulder.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Ewa turned towards Jaskier.

“You cut it pretty close,” she said. Jaskier couldn’t gauge her emotions from her flat tone. If she was going to claim he’d been late, he wouldn’t be above running after the girl and asking her to testify that he’d been on time.

“Close, but I made it. Here are my earnings, every single coin to my name.” He handed over his purse and waited while she peeked inside. He was itching to see Geralt, but waited patiently.

“This will do. I shall take your horse and this purse, and we shall be even.”

Jaskier wanted to argue that he needed the horse, especially if Geralt was still unable to walk, but decided not to press the point. They’d make it somehow.

“Thank you. Will you return my friend to his original size now?”

“Of course, that was our deal,” she said and went to her bedroom. Jaskier followed, eager to see Geralt, and curious about how the decursing would go. When he stepped inside, he saw Ewa standing in front of the shelf. He followed her gaze and noticed that the towel was missing.

“Oh, you moved him. Was he feeling better? Where is he?”

“I did not. He should still be asleep.”

Dread threatened to take over Jaskier. He took a deep breath and shook his head, convinced he had misunderstood something.

“Where is he?” he asked again.

“I do not know.”


	5. Day 6: Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I try to earn the archive tag: graphic depictions of violence. Consider yourself warned.

Day 6: Monster

Geralt was lying on something soft inside an enclosed space. He could see in the dark better than humans, but he couldn’t make out what he was confined in. The walls looked like they were made out of a tubular material that was twisted in a complicated yet repetitive pattern. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place it. The constant swinging he was experiencing didn’t help him either. He wasn’t sure whether he was feeling something physical that was actually happening, or if he was so dizzy he only thought he was moving. His shoulder also hurt badly, throbbing with pain every time he swung from side to side, like he was attached to a giant pendulum.

The motion eventually ceased. Geralt savoured the stillness, breathing the stuffy air in slowly. He didn’t get to rest for long. The top of his enclosure opened suddenly and light streamed in. He squeezed his eyes shut, grunting at the discomfort. He hadn’t been feeling great to begin with, and the stab of light made him reel. Before he could recover, he felt something grab him and lift him. Geralt had been manhandled by enough monsters to recognise the pressure around his ribs as a paw. He opened his eyes with narrowed pupils and saw a giant that bore the face of a human girl.

“Yellow eyes! Like our cat!” the giant exclaimed. Geralt winced at the loud voice assaulting his ears. The grip around him wasn’t gentle, though not as painful as he’d expected, considering that the last time he’d been conscious he’d had several broken ribs. He thought about the well, how Jaskier had appeared out of nowhere, and the endlessly long ride of pure agony. Something must’ve attacked them during it. He’d need to gather more information first and then decide on the best course of action.

“Can you talk?” the giant asked. Geralt hesitated. He couldn’t guess what the monster was a subspecies of and thus he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Its ability to communicate was unusual. He was unwilling to engage in case it was a way to lure him into compliance, not unlike how sirens sang to humans.

When Geralt didn’t reply, the giant shook him. Geralt’s right hand flew to the back of his neck to stop his head from being jerked back and forth so violently. This made the giant laugh.

“You’re a funny little creature. Are you a fairy? I see no wings.”

Geralt was roughly slammed onto his stomach on the monster’s palm, the movement aggravating his shoulder. He grit his teeth and tried to keep from crying out. Whatever the beast was, it wasn’t cautious with him, potentially signifying that it had no intention of keeping him alive for long.

“I shall call you Tom. I don’t really play with dolls anymore, not since I pulled Tommy’s limbs off. It was fun, but ma refused to repair him. She says I’m too old for such things anyway.”

Geralt looked around. He’d rather not suffer the same fate as the monster’s previous plaything. Huge evergreens prevented him from seeing much, but as far as he could tell, the forest around him was dense. There was no snow, but it was cold. He was acutely aware of wearing nothing but trousers and bandages. At least the giant had a warm hand.

“Can you stand up on your own? I want to see that.”

Complying seemed like the wisest path for now. Geralt got on his knees and climbed up, using the giant’s thumb for support. He was hurting significantly less than he had been, but he felt frighteningly weak. Standing up made his legs tremble and his head feel a rotational movement that wasn’t real.

“Very good, Tom! I’d give you a treat if I had any.”

Geralt’s stomach gave a twinge. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Judging by how damned hollow he felt, it had been a while.

“My name is Kamila. Will you be a good boy for me, Tom?”

Geralt looked into the giant’s -- Kamila’s -- face. She resembled a human child, with a slightly upturned nose and round cheeks. He stared into her blue eyes and nodded. A wide smile split her face.

“Good! I shan’t need to punish you then!”

*****

Jaskier dropped down on all fours, frantically looking around on the floor, peeking under the bed, going through each corner. There was no sign of Geralt.

“Where is he?!” he shouted, making Ewa flinch.

“I told you, I do not know. He was here when I was examining Mrs Dula, fast asleep.”

“Did she take him? He was your responsibility!”

“I assure you, she would not have taken him. He was hidden by the towel, she did not even notice him,” Ewa said. She seemed to be regaining her composure, appearing more calm and collected than immediately after the initial surprise. But Jaskier was too angry to care about her mental state.

“Well someone did, unless you claim he escaped on his own.”

“He would not have been fit enough to climb down.”

“That brat! She returned to this room to get her mother’s bag. Where do they live?” Jaskier demanded, hand on the door handle already, poised to run the moment he knew where to go.

Ewa studied Jaskier silently for a moment, an infuriating look of superiority on her face. Jaskier fisted his free hand, squeezing so hard he felt his short nails press against his palm that was still chafed raw from the rope.

“I will come show you, and make sure you retain your composure. I would prefer it if you did not scare my paying customers away.”

“I’m a paying customer,” Jaskier snapped, barely containing himself. The intensity of his rage took him by surprise, but he had no time for introspection. Someone had taken Geralt while he was vulnerable, and Jaskier would not stop until he found him. He strode into the main room and grabbed Geralt’s swords from the corner. At least they had been safe like the mage had promised. Jaskier lifted them on his back, knees bending with the weight. He needed to loosen the strap to make the harness fit. It made him even angrier.

“Let’s go,” he growled, sounding eerily like Geralt. Ewa followed him outside.

They walked across the town and into the unwalled countryside. Jaskier didn’t say a single word during the trek, but his anger was starting to dissipate. Physical exertion worked well in calming him down, though it could do nothing to quench the worry twisting his insides. It was cold outside, his breath misted as they walked briskly. He hoped Geralt was kept warm, wherever he was. He always got chilled so easily.

They reached the farm where the Dula family resided. Jaskier stopped in front of the door and leaned against the wall. He didn’t know how Geralt managed to carry the swords all over the continent and not crawl half the time. He knocked on the door and waited for someone to answer.

“Could you please try to remain calm?” Ewa asked. Her equilibrium appeared unshakable, but Jaskier had seen her slip earlier. Most of her attitude had to be an act, and the realisation humanised her greatly in Jaskier’s eyes. He’d been intimidated by her initially, but not so much now. Still, he had manners and he nodded at her, agreeing to contain himself.

“Hello, is Kamila here?” Ewa asked when Mrs Dula opened the door.

“No, she’s off somewhere, probably playing in the woods. What’s this about?”

“We just need to talk to her, that is all. She is not in any sort of danger,” Ewa said. She sounded assuring without the smallest hint of doubt. Jaskier wanted to remind her that he had two very serious-looking swords on his back, and a massive grudge if his friend had come to harm, but his threats would’ve been empty, and they all knew it. He didn’t know how to use the swords effectively, and had even less desire to do so.

“Check the evergreen forest near Dunghill, she often plays there,” Mrs Dula said.

“I know the place, thank you.” Ewa turned away from the door without further word. Jaskier felt strangely disappointed. He had wanted to vent his rage, to show his opinion about the kidnapping, but he couldn’t deny that they’d gotten exactly what they’d come for without any theatrics. And he was tired, the frantic running around and all the stress and worry of the recent days catching up to him. He followed Ewa meekly, adjusting the straps that were digging into his shoulders. Had he any sense in his head, he would’ve left the swords with his horse, but he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to them. He had failed to keep Geralt safe, but he could look after his weapons.

*****

“Dance for me, Tom,” Kamila said. She brought her hand up to be level with her face. Geralt looked into the large blue eyes, so like a human’s. He’d been playing along with her orders, but his patience had reached its limit. He had no desire or strength to wiggle about like a jester. Even remaining upright was a challenge, not helped by the giant hand constantly moving.

“Tom, did you hear me?”

Geralt shook his head. He wanted to keep his posture, but he was forced to sink down onto her palm, breathing hard. The vertigo making him dizzy had not subsided and he felt nauseated.

“Do you know what happens to bad boys?” the giant asked and shook her hand. Geralt leaned forwards and gripped the monster’s skin with his fingers, trying to stay on. His vision darkened at the edges and he realised he was close to fainting.

“Bad boys need to be punished,” Kamila said. She pinched Geralt’s thigh between two fingers and picked him up. Geralt closed his eyes when the world revolved around him. The pressure around his leg told him he was dangling upside down, but his sense of equilibrium insisted he was spinning around.

“I really hoped you’d be different than Tommy. Ma is right, men are always disappointing.”

Kamila grabbed Geralt’s middle and swung him the right way up again. She squeezed the fingers of her other hand around Geralt’s right leg, and started pulling. Geralt’s eyes flew open and he braced himself against the pain. The pressure around his hip joint increased, until there was a sickening crack, and an all-encompassing sense of wrongness. Geralt felt something snap in his upper thigh, and still the monster kept pulling. His muscles stretched, his skin tightened, and the full agony hit him. He screamed, existing entirely in his hip, feeling nothing but the sensation of being ripped apart.

Clinging to the last vestiges of his wits, Geralt ran his fingers through the sign of Aard and directed the release where he estimated Kamila’s face to be. A shrill shriek told him he hit true, but he couldn’t capitalise on the opportunity to escape since the fingers around him let go. He fell, having only time to realise that he’d been a lot higher than he’d thought, and that Jaskier was going to mock him for falling again, and then he slammed against the ground.

To his amazement, Geralt remained conscious. He was stunned with pain, incapable of moving, of breathing. His hip hurt badly. He didn’t dare to look whether his leg was still attached or not. The urgency to get away from the monster penetrated the haze in his mind. He looked around, seeing nothing but large brown plants and gigantic trees. Something about the plants seemed off, but he had no time to chase after the observation. He turned onto his stomach with the intention of crawling away, but the movement made such slicing agony go through his entire body that he couldn’t do anything but collapse on the ground and force himself to breathe through it. He felt the large fingers wrap around him again, squeezing so hard he couldn’t expand his ribs enough to inhale properly.

“Very, very bad boy!” Kamila yelled and shook Geralt. “I thought you were nice. I was going to be nice. I saw that you’re hurt and I was going to bring you home to recover. Forget that now! What are you hiding under that bandage anyway?”

Geralt was only vaguely aware of what was happening. He was in so much pain he couldn’t localise it, but he heard when several of his ribs cracked under the pressure Kamila was putting on them. He blinked slowly. He was going to die. A monster he was unfamiliar with would rip him apart and abandon him into the forest of giant trees and there was nothing he could do about it.

“If you move, I will tear your head off, understood?”

Geralt didn’t have the strength to nod. He lay still as Kamila set him onto her palm. She picked the bandage off him, releasing his left arm. It flopped listlessly next to him, prompting a twinge of pain in his shoulder.

“There’s no wound. I was expecting blood, not boring scars. You disappoint me again.”

Geralt wanted to tell her exactly how much he cared about disappointing a monster, but he lacked the strength. Or perhaps his instinct for self-preservation kicked in. Either way, he remained passive on her hand while she continued to rant about her crushed dreams.

When she grabbed Geralt’s left hand, he perked up. She lifted it between her thumb and index finger, and Geralt knew what would come next. He was too spent for signs, and he had no weapons on him. He could only watch in horror as she pulled on the arm, lifting him up until he dangled from the injured appendage. The pain was unspeakable. He felt like he was stretched between his shoulder and his hip, nothing but stinging, burning agony all over his body, running through those two focal points. When Kamila gave his hand a jerk, making something grind and snap in his shoulder, he gave up. He couldn’t bear more, not even by concentrating all of his considerable willpower. His consciousness fled, leaving him hanging limply at the mercy of the beast who knew none.

*****

“How far can one girl go? This isn’t even a large forest. Can’t you locate her with your magic?” Jaskier was walking briskly in a forest that mostly consisted of coniferous trees, looking for any hints of movement. His breath came quickly, sending little puffs of steam in the air.

“We will find her,” Ewa said. She was standing still, looking into the forest with an infuriating calmness. While Jaskier ran around, stomping through the underbrush and keeping in constant motion, she chose a spot, surveyed the area around her, and then moved.

“Would he be awake by now?” Jaskier asked. He couldn’t help but imagine how confused Geralt must be, a fraction of his typical size and alone with a stranger in a place he didn’t know.

“Yes, I only encouraged him to fall asleep. External stimuli would wake him.”

Jaskier squeezed his hands into fists. Once he found him, he would never let Geralt out of his sight again. He shouted Kamila’s name, trying to sound friendly and inviting. If Geralt had been harmed while in her possession, he would seriously need to consider if he was willing to threaten a child with physical violence.

“We will find him,” Ewa said. She looked at Jaskier, her eyes warm and her mouth smiling. Jaskier wanted to believe her, to take her kindness at face value. But if they failed to find Geralt, she would be responsible for losing a patient, and a witcher at that. For some, that would make her blunder excusable, while others might consider her even more dangerous if she was able to best a witcher. In any case, there would be an uproar, Jaskier would make sure of it. And Ewa probably guessed his intentions. It would be easy for her to pre-emptively silence him.

They walked in the forest for a long while. The shadows grew lengthier and Jaskier’s stomach emptier. He didn’t want to be bothered by such trivialities while his friend was missing, but he felt his strength waning. Ewa kept throwing glances at him, as if challenging him to call off the search before she’d be forced to interfere.

Jaskier was about to give up, thoroughly spent and dispirited, when he heard whistling. His head jerked towards the sound. The source wasn’t far. He took off, stumbling forwards, hearing Ewa follow him with lighter steps. They went around a line of three enormous spruces, and came face to face with the girl they’d been looking for.

“Where is he?!” Jaskier shouted, startling her. Ewa came around him, tapping him on the arm and going to the girl. She had a bag on her shoulder. Jaskier’s hands itched to take it from her and look inside.

“Hello sweetheart. Have you been playing in the woods?” Ewa asked, very gently. The girl nodded.

“Did you have a toy with you?”

Jaskier allowed his gaze to wander, letting Ewa handle the questioning while he fumed silently. On the second pass over the girl, he noticed that her hands were stained red.

“Would you mind if we looked in the bag? Just in case something has fallen there by accident?” Ewa asked. The girl gave permission, and handed the bag over. Jaskier grabbed it and pulled it open. There was a scarf, one medium-sized potato, some hay or grass at the bottom, and a familiar-looking towel. He took it out and held it for Ewa.

“Is this yours?” he asked, voice trembling. Ewa’s eyes widened and she nodded.

“Where is he?” he asked, turning towards the girl. She cowered, stepping behind Ewa. When she grabbed her skirt, Jaskier saw the red on her fingers more clearly. It looked unmistakably like blood. “And what’s on your hands?”

“Berry juice. I was only playing.”

“So if I sniff that, I’ll smell lingonberry?”

“Please control yourself,” Ewa said, holding her hand protectively in front of Kamila. Jaskier almost felt ashamed of himself for being so menacing in front of a child, but the evidence that she had taken Geralt was solid.

“I apologise,” Jaskier said. “It’s just that the white-haired doll is my friend. I miss him a lot. Could you tell me where he is?”

Kamila stepped further behind Ewa. Her gaze was directed downwards, but Jaskier saw no shyness in it. On the contrary, the girl was smiling, and not sweetly.

“He was a bad boy. Did he have a bandage on because you had to punish him too?”

Jaskier was taken aback. The girl had all but admitted that she had taken Geralt and knew where he was. The implication that she’d caused him physical harm hung in the air. Jaskier decided to play along, to pretend to be on her side, as much as it sickened him.

“How else would he behave himself, right?” he smiled at the child. Her answering grin was chilling.

“He can’t run away now, I took care of that.”

“Good thinking. Where did you leave him?”

“Up in a tree, so high he can’t jump down.”

“That is very clever,” Jaskier said, plastering a smile on his face. He hoped Ewa wouldn’t interfere, but she seemed to have caught on and stayed silent.

“He hurt my face,” Kamile said, almost coyly. Jaskier clutched his chest in mock outrageousness.

“He did not! That is terrible! Are you alright?”

Kamila smiled brightly, and stepped closer to Jaskier.

“I’m fine, but it hurt a lot. I punished him for it.”

“As is your right, of course. In fact, that is such appalling behaviour I feel like I should punish him for it as well. Such an affront against a lady like yourself cannot be excused.”

Kamila giggled and took Jaskier’s hand. He tried to ignore the blood coating it.

“Come, I will show you,” she said and pulled him after her. Jaskier followed, heart beating frantically. He tried to tell himself that although Kamila was a child, surely she must understand that Geralt was a living creature. She wouldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t.

They came to a tiny creek. Kamila hopped across it and climbed over a large moss-covered rock. Jaskier followed, slipping on the moist vegetation. Once he got to the other side, he found himself in a small clearing surrounded by lush spruces growing tight against each other. They must’ve passed the trees several times without realising there was space behind them. In the middle of the clearing, there was a thin birch with half of its branches dead. Ewa was just climbing over the rock when Jaskier’s eyes hit a line of red running along the trunk. He followed it up, and in an abandoned bird’s nest, he saw Geralt.

“Geralt!” he shouted and reached for him. Before he could touch, he halted. Geralt was lying in an unnatural position, his right leg bent at an angle that shouldn’t have been possible, with his left arm over his head, stretched further than his shoulder should’ve allowed. Swallowing thickly, Jaskier looked closer, finding the source of the bleeding. Geralt’s chest was crushed, the fragmented remains of his ribs poking through the skin. The lower half of his face was covered in blood, and only the fresh flow from his mouth let Jaskier know he was breathing.

“Geralt,” he said in a broken whisper. He heard Ewa gasp behind her. A hysterical part of him wanted to giggle. If the sight was enough to unsettle a sorceress, Geralt had to be in a really bad way.

“Jaskier, step back,” Ewa said. Jaskier obeyed automatically. He didn’t have the capacity to think about anything at the moment. In quiet desperation, he watched as Ewa picked up the nest with Geralt in it, trying to jostle him as little as possible.

“Listen closely now,” she said. Jaskier tried to pay attention. “I have to bring him to my house immediately. I will portal there with him, but I cannot bring more passengers. Take Kamila home, and come there. Do not hurt her.”

Jaskier watched her open a small, quivering portal and step through. He felt empty and numb. His brain took a long time to connect the dots and understand that the child still standing next to him had left Geralt in such horrendous condition.

“Do not say a single word,” he said, barely holding onto his control. This was a child. She wasn’t a malicious monster. She was only playing. When he looked into her face, he saw a wicked smile, and murderous intent. He must be imagining it. He was so overwhelmed at what to do and how to feel that he did nothing. Eventually Kamila took over, and started leading them to her home. She must’ve understood that Jaskier was close to snapping, for she kept quiet while they walked in the darkening woods.

Jaskier left Kamila at her parents’. He felt nothing when she disappeared through the door. He walked slowly back to town, anxious to be with Geralt, but fearing there was nothing but a corpse waiting for him. At least while he was still on the road to his destination, he could imagine that Ewa had healed Geralt and he’d be waiting for him, annoyed that he’d dallied so long, but in good health. Jaskier sniffed. He didn’t know when he’d started crying, but once he acknowledged it, the tears wouldn’t stop. He wiped his eyes and nose, trying to see where he was going, but the sun was nearly down. A cold wind blew, drowning out his sobs. He was the only person walking through town. Alone, like he’d be the rest of his life with Geralt gone.

When Jaskier reached Ewa’s house, he didn’t bother knocking. He opened the door and stepped in, wiping away the last traces of his tears. Ewa had Geralt on the table, still in miniature form. Jaskier had to clear his throat twice before he could talk.

“How is he?”

“I have dulled his pain. He had enough life force left to be temporarily stabilised, but that is all.”

“Meaning?”

“That you have time to say goodbye.”

Jaskier closed his eyes. He had no tears left to shed. This could not be happening.

“Is there nothing you can do?” he asked, desperation breaking his voice.

“I am afraid he is too weak. The healing he requires takes an enormous amount of energy. He has none left to spare and still continue living, and I cannot use my own since it would drain me, and I need to direct the healing. There is just too much damage, everything inside him is… nevermind. I cannot build something out of nothing.”

“Use mine,” Jaskier said, the words bursting out of his mouth without conscious thought. He walked to the table and looked down. Geralt was propped on his side on a pile of towels. Fresh blood leaked out of his mouth with every shallow exhale.

“No,” Ewa said. “I cannot take your life. I heal people, I do not kill them.” Jaskier wanted to punch her.

“But he will die if you do nothing,” he said. Ewa only nodded, the sadness evident in her glimmering eyes. “Is there truly nothing you can do? Nothing you can use?”

“I am afraid life force is what is needed for healing at this level.”

Jaskier rubbed his eyes with his fists. What was his life in comparison to Geralt’s? His value had to be less, he was only a troubadour, while Geralt saved countless lives.

Countless… lives.

“What if the force comes from several people?” he asked. Ewa looked at him with confusion. “What if I bring the entire village for you to take from? Would that work?”

“I think so. I would have to link them all first, but that is not too complicated, then I would have to assign a siphon point, but yes, it would work.”

“Keep him alive! I’ll be back!” Jaskier said while rushing to the door. He had no plan of action, only inspiration. But an inspired bard was a dangerous thing. His mother had once said that there was nothing his silver tongue couldn’t accomplish. As he ran to the nearest door, he fervently wished it was true. He would need a miracle in order to rally an entire village to save the life of one witcher.

*****

It was not a miracle that aided Jaskier that night, but the profound goodness found in most humans. He pleaded, he begged, he told stories until he was hoarse. He cried and laughed and gave several assurances that he hadn’t lost his marbles. Some people closed their door in his face, but more people listened. They saw the raw desperation on his face, they heard the love in his voice, and they came. By the time the sun rose, fiftyseven people stood outside Ewa’s house, waiting for Jaskier to return with the final batch. For some, it was a bit of an exciting adventure, something out of the ordinary, while others felt like heroes coming together under a noble cause.

Jaskier strode into the crowd, six people trailing behind him. They found their place next to some friends, while Jaskier continued to the door. He had brought as many as he could reach in a reasonable amount of time, but if it wasn’t enough, he’d keep going. He knocked, and waited for Ewa to answer. When she opened the door, her eyes widened.

“Will this suffice?”

“Yes, this is more than I -- yes,” Ewa said. Jaskier noted that her hands were bloody.

“How is he?”

“We should start immediately. Go stand at the front there and tell everyone to hold hands.”

Jaskier did as instructed, raising his voice to carry over the din of the crowd. A massive rustle followed as people found each other’s hands to hold, linking everyone together. Jaskier took his place closest to Ewa and the house, keeping steady despite how exhausted he was. Ewa put her hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, and he felt something surge through him. The villagers felt it too, there were surprised murmurs travelling through the crowd. Once the surge had reached everyone, Jaskier started getting feedback from the connection. There was an incredible amount of power, he felt like he was about to burst with it. In addition to the sensation of raw energy, he was also starting to feel the emotions of the villagers. Excitement, nervousness, boredom, it all poured into him and filled him to the brim. He looked at Ewa, unable to say anything. She seemed pleased.

Ewa returned inside and came back out carrying Geralt. He was gasping for breath, his destroyed chest jerking erratically. Jaskier felt ill looking at the blood staining him and at the fractured bones tearing the skin more with each movement.

“Hang in there,” Ewa said. Jaskier wasn’t sure who she was talking to. She held Geralt in one hand, and placed her other palm on Jaskier’s forehead. He was about to ask what would happen next, but a massive wave of raw energy tore through him and he could say or think nothing.

The people behind him were silent apart from occasional soft gasps. They had to be feeling the same, the enormous movement of something from them all, going from person to person until it all siphoned through Jaskier into Ewa. She removed her hand from him and told Jaskier to kiss her cheek. He obeyed, nearly losing his footing when the connection of his lips against her skin jolted him. He felt the power flowing through him, scraping him raw as it went. But as the life force flowed, Ewa held her free hand above Geralt, and his wounds started closing. Jaskier saw the ribs fold back inside him, and new skin cover the tears. His hip jerked into its proper place, and the audible snaps coming from his shoulder had to mean it was repairing itself too. Once the bones were in place, Ewa moved onto organs and soft tissue, something Jaskier couldn’t see, but he felt it through his connection to her.

The amount of damage the girl had inflicted by squeezing and shaking was staggering. Jaskier lost track of everything Ewa had to put back in place or create from torn bits and pieces. Jaskier wanted to stop looking and feeling, but he couldn’t disengage. He’d never thought he’d get to become intimately familiar with his friend’s inner workings, but there they were, each muscle and sinew and vein and nerve flashing before his eyes as Ewa went through them all and repaired what had been broken.

“I think that’s enough,” Ewa said, sounding winded. “Withdraw.”

Jaskier felt a dampening in the connection. He pulled his lips off her, severing the bond between them. As soon as he did so, the villagers sighed and gasped. Slowly, they parted their hands. It was done. They felt slightly tired and disoriented, but no worse than that.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said and leaned closer. Ewa held her hand out to him. Geralt looked alright. Very tired, still bloody and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, but whole. Ewa had kept him unconscious during the healing, forcibly separating his awareness from his body, but he appeared to be sleeping peacefully now.

“He’ll live?” Jaskier asked, looking at Ewa. She looked exhausted but satisfied.

“He will live,” she confirmed. Jaskier repeated it louder for everyone, and when they cheered, he burst into tears.


	6. Day 7: Kaer Morhen

Day 7: Kaer Morhen

Jaskier yawned so wide his jaw joints creaked. Sunlight was streaming through the thin curtains, warming his face and hurting his eyes. He rolled over and smacked his nose against the large cushion next to him. Rather than being annoyed at the obstacle, he smiled. He opened his eyes and sat up. Geralt was sleeping on the cushion, using Jaskier’s embroidered handkerchief as a blanket. He was still tiny, and would remain so until he was fully recovered, which Ewa had estimated might take a month if not longer. Jaskier reckoned Geralt would declare himself hale in two weeks at most. He hadn’t been awake much, but apparently that was a good thing, his body mending itself while he slept.

“Good morning, Geralt,” Jaskier said. He had spent the previous day in bed as well, completely wiped out from the hectic few days he’d had, in addition to bearing the massive healing power running through him. He was grateful for the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion that had kept him from thinking about everything he’d gone through, about how close Geralt had come to dying. When he looked at him, sleeping soundly, his chest moving rhythmically, Jaskier could push the image of the blood flowing down his sides out of his mind. It would probably visit his dreams later, but for now, he needed but to open his eyes and he could see that his friend was alive and getting better. Memories could not hurt them.

“Morning,” Geralt said, very quietly. He sounded like himself, but greatly reduced.

“Anything hurting?” Jaskier asked.

“Not much,” Geralt said. He made no move to get up, lying still on his back, eyes closed.

“Are you as hungry as I am?”

“Could eat.”

“Yep, I’m ravenous too,” Jaskier said with a smile. He picked up the pillow, careful to keep it steady. Ewa had said that while Geralt was fully fixed, with everything in its proper place again, his body still needed time to recuperate. If he moved too much now, he could undo all the hard work that had been put into healing him. Jaskier didn’t mind that Geralt couldn’t be decursed yet. He was convenient to look after and to keep in his sight in miniature form.

Jaskier entered the main room and put Geralt’s pillow down on the large table in the kitchen corner. Ewa was at the stove, frying something that smelled divine.

“Nose woke you up?” she asked with a smile. Jaskier ignored her and poked his face closer to the frying pan. There were several eggs and strips of bacon sizzling. He had never seen a more beautiful sight.

“Does wielding massive amounts of power always work up such an appetite?” he asked. He’d done nothing but eat and sleep the previous day, and still he was hungry.

“Pretty much,” Ewa said. “You should be back to normal by tomorrow.”

“Good. We’ll get out of your hair then. Is the elixir ready yet?”

Ewa nodded. She had concocted a potion that would lift the curse in her stead, allowing Jaskier to take Geralt home. Ewa was treating them well as her guests, but Jaskier didn’t want to linger in the town any longer than they had to. He was still amazed at how kind the people had been, but even his overwhelming gratitude couldn’t diminish the fear of running into Kamila again. Jaskier didn’t want to be put in the position of having to choose how to treat the child, and he certainly didn’t want Geralt to encounter her. Better to just leave.

“Remember, do not give it to him too soon. The strain that transformation puts on his joints could dislocate them again, and then he might end up with a tiny leg in a normal-sized body.”

“We don’t want that,” Jaskier agreed. He promised to wait a full cycle of the moon, no matter how much Geralt might claim to be ready for it. And for once, Jaskier would have the upper hand on account of being much larger and stronger, as little as he’d want to use his size as leverage.

They ate breakfast in companionable silence. Jaskier lost count of how many eggs he inhaled, yolk after yolk disappearing in his mouth. He tore off a piece of his bacon and gave it to Geralt who held it with both hands. He was also very convenient to feed, a small morsel was sufficient to fill up his tiny body.

“We are going to save so much money with you eating so little,” Jaskier said. Geralt glared at him, but didn’t stop munching on his piece. Jaskier laughed and drank some milk. He felt light with the pressure and anguish of the last few days gone. There were no immediate demands on him, no impending threats. Geralt would recover, and while he was in the weakened state, he couldn’t wander off, staying where Jaskier could keep track of him. At least until he was well enough to return to the Path, but that was something Jaskier would not think about. For now, he intended to make his friend as comfortable as he could, and show him the joys of idleness.

“So, where do you want to go?” Jaskier asked after they’d eaten their fill and were lying in bed again.

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said. Jaskier raised his eyebrows. Had Geralt truly not noticed that snow had started to fall yesterday, and had not stopped yet?

“I thought the mountains were impenetrable in winter? If it’s snowing this far south, there’s no hope at all that the roads would be clear in Kaedwen.”

“I know it’s impossible. But you asked where I wanted to go.” Geralt sounded sullen. He crossed his arms on his chest. Judging by the squint in his eyes, the position caused him pain, but he remained in it.

“I think it might be time for you to take a nap,” Jaskier said.

“I just woke up,” Geralt said. He uncrossed his arms and shifted on his pillow that was currently bent in half against the headboard of the bed to give him a soft surface to lean against while sitting up.

“You do understand the concept of convalescing, yes? Just relax, listen to your body.”

“I don’t want to take a nap.”

“You sounding like a petulant toddler proves that you do, in fact, need that nap. Just lie down and close your eyes, see what happens.”

Jaskier waited, not looking directly at Geralt. It didn’t take long for a yawn to split his little face. He didn’t lie down, but as Jaskier watched discreetly from the corner of his eye, he saw Geralt’s head slump against his shoulder. He blinked his eyes slowly, fighting to stay awake like the stubborn fool he was, but he lost the round. Jaskier smiled tenderly as he rearranged the pillow to lay Geralt flat, and tucked him in under the handkerchief blanket. Geralt did not wake.

Jaskier was in equal parts amused and frustrated, but a sense of fondness dominated over all else. It was going to be a long month if every step with Geralt would be such a struggle, especially once he started feeling better but still had to keep from being too active. But Jaskier also feared the month would slip by too fast. It was rare that they got to spend so much time together without constantly being on the move or running from monsters. He would savour the quiet, stress-free life they’d get to experience as long as it would last.

*****

The following morning found Jaskier bundled up in a new winter cloak and woollen trousers. He carried a small wicker basket that had been lined with his softest undershirt and spare pants. Geralt was tucked inside snugly, only his head visible above the mass of cloth.

“Thank you again for everything,” Jaskier said. He sat astride Geryon and looked down at Ewa. “Especially for returning my horse to me.”

“I could not in good conscience claim him after it was my fault your friend got hurt again,” she said. The coldness she had initially treated Jaskier with was gone, replaced by a warmth he never would’ve expected from a mage. His saddlebags were full of food and water, and herbs that could be used to knock Geralt out if travelling turned out to be too much for him.

“You didn’t lose him on purpose. That deranged child took him. You should keep an eye on her.”

Jaskier had tried to forgive, but he still harboured hatred toward Kamila. He wasn’t sure if the child could be held accountable for the atrocities she had inflicted on Geralt. He felt like she should. But punishment wasn’t what would correct her, as much as the anger in him demanded satisfaction. Ewa would guide her to a better path, teach her how to treat living things. It wasn’t his problem.

“Take care of him,” Ewa said, directing Jaskier’s attention to his friend. He looked down into the basket dangling from his neck on a rope. Geralt was asleep, nearly blending into the white shirt he used as padding. Jaskier smiled fondly and nodded at Ewa. He would forget the girl and focus all his attention on keeping Geralt safe and comfortable. Seeing him heal would be the best remedy for his anger, clearing away all the bitterness that might linger. Geralt was alright, and that was what mattered.

He took his leave and directed Geryon out through the town gates. As always, they had no money between them, but the call of the road urged them on.

*****

They reached Oxenfurt after a few days of travelling. Geralt handled the trip well, sleeping naturally most of the way, only needing to rely on the potent herbs a couple of times when the road got particularly rough. Jaskier had an apartment in the city where he usually spent the winters, teaching a few courses at the university. It was a convenient arrangement and filled his time nicely when adventuring was inadvisable due to the snowy roads and miserable conditions. He rarely visited Oxenfurt during the summer or the milder autumn and spring months. Since he was relatively late getting back this year, the apartment would’ve been standing empty for a long while. He went through everything in his mind that he would need to get or clean in order to make the apartment habitable not just for himself but for Geralt as well. Not that Geralt needed much at the moment, mainly a comfortable place to sleep.

“We’re home,” Jaskier said as he stepped inside. It was amazing that he had managed to survive another summer away without losing his key. He set the basket and his saddlebags down on the kitchen table and went to open a few windows. Geryon was secure in the academy stables, and would be taken care of by the workers there. Jaskier would report to his faculty the following day and agree upon his teaching schedule. But for now, he had nothing he absolutely had to do. They had plenty of travel rations left to tide them over until he could organise some proper food. A hot steaming plate of something fresh enticed him greatly, but he was reluctant to leave. Especially since he didn’t dare take Geralt with him. No one in town could find out about his current condition. A helpless witcher would soon be a dead witcher.

“You awake, Geralt?” Jaskier asked as he went through his cupboards. There was a grunt from the basket that didn’t really tell him one way or the other. “Do you want me to build you a nest here or do you want to sleep with me in the bedroom?”

“Why would I want to sleep with you?”

“So you won’t have to shout through the door when you need something.”

“I’ll get it myself,” Geralt said. Jaskier stopped looking for the wooden crate his fine silks had come in last autumn that he knew he’d stored somewhere, and went to Geralt’s basket.

“You won’t have to. As long as you’re indisposed, I’ll take care of you. And you can’t reach anything anyway, so just ask when you want something.”

“Am I a prisoner here?”

“What?” Jaskier looked at Geralt, trying to determine if he was being serious. He saw no signs of levity on his face, only defiance. “You’re my guest. I know this is a novel concept, but there genuinely are no demands on you right now. Let me help you, anything you want, I will grant.”

Geralt eyed Jaskier as if he was the one being difficult.

“Then can I leave?” Geralt asked.

“You’re the size of my hand. You wouldn’t survive a day on your own.”

“So you are keeping me against my will.”

Jaskier’s face went through several expressions before it settled into one of pure bafflement. He’d expected Geralt to be pleased about the chance to rest in a safe place for once. But as he thought about it, he realised that Geralt had never been fully dependent on someone else, always surviving on his own, trusting no one to take care of him. He had to admit he was a little bit hurt that Geralt didn’t consider his apartment a secure location or think that he could fully rely on him, but he understood. Hopefully their time together would help Geralt in starting to build more trust.

“Geralt, don’t make me into the enemy when I’m trying to help you. Where would you even go?”

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt muttered. Jaskier found the insistence curious. He knew that Geralt didn’t return to Kaer Morhen every single winter if the situation didn’t allow it, be it due to weather or contracts keeping him busy. Perhaps his weakened state made him yearn for the only home he had, as a place where he could fully let his guard down and allow himself to be vulnerable.

“That’s the one thing I can’t do for you. I’m sorry.”

Geralt rolled over in his basket, facing away from Jaskier. Jaskier took it to mean that he needed some space, so he continued rummaging in his kitchen. He knew he had a large crate somewhere, it would work perfectly as a room for Geralt if he could only find it.

The sun dipped lower while Jaskier went through his apartment, doing some dusting as he went along, finally running into the crate at the bottom of his wardrobe. It was smaller than he remembered, but it would still fit a pile of bedding and leave some breathing room. Jaskier looked for a good place to put it, and went to his fireplace. He set the crate down next to it, far enough to be safe from errant sparks, but close enough to stay warm. When his eyes roamed over the hearthstones, he was struck by sudden inspiration. It was too late to act on it, but the idea was forming in his mind. Almost giddy with excitement, Jaskier dug out a pile of coins from a sock he kept hidden in his spare lute case and went to sleep early.

*****

The following day was busy and exhausting. Jaskier ticked another thing off his mental list and wiped his brow. The pack on his back weighed more than ten swords together, and he adjusted the straps on his shoulders. But luckily he was heading home now. As soon as the baker handed over the honeycake he’d bought, he’d be free to head back. He’d been to the university, briefly seen some friends who would be mortally offended if he didn’t inform them about his return, and bought a lot more stuff than he had intended. Hence the overly heavy bag. He took his cake, a fortifying inhale, and left the bakery.

Large wet snowflakes were falling as he walked to the apartment. The street turned muddy and he cursed his choice of footwear. One day off the road and he’d already reverted to his foppish habits that Geralt made fun of, but he was tired of wearing dreary, sensible clothing. Thinking about Geralt made him hasten his steps. He told himself he was eager about the surprise he had for him, not worried about how he was doing on his own.

When Jaskier got in, he strode into the main room and smiled. Geralt was exactly where he’d left him: sleeping in his basket by the fireplace. He’d drunk most of the water Jaskier had left him in a thimble, and eaten the small piece of jerky and single dried blueberry.

“I’m back, are you awake?” he whispered. Since there was no answer, he went to his bedroom and emptied his backpack on the bed. Time to get to work.

By the time Jaskier finished, it was already dark outside. He carried his crate next to the fireplace and set it down, trying not to drop it, but it was too heavy to handle carefully. Geralt sat up abruptly, woken up by the noise. He looked around, tensing up and hands automatically searching for his swords.

“Sorry,” Jaskier said. He picked Geralt up, frowning at the way he stiffened when the fingers closed around his middle. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Geralt said, sounding strained. Belatedly, Jaskier realised that this was exactly how Kamila had hurt him, by utilising her superior size and strength, holding him in a grasp he couldn’t escape. He quickly set Geralt down and withdrew his hand. To emphasise that Geralt had nothing to fear from him, Jaskier sat down on the floor, keeping his hands tucked away in his lap.

“What did you want?” Geralt asked after a moment, so obviously seeking a distraction that Jaskier hesitated before offering it to him.

“I have something for you. I know it’s not comparable to the real thing, and it obviously misses the key elements, but I want you to be comfortable. My home is your home.”

Jaskier nodded at the crate by the fireplace. He’d sawed a door into it and covered it by glueing a handkerchief in front. Geralt opened the curtain and peered in. His eyes widened far enough for Jaskier to notice. The crate was lined inside with flagstones, giving it the appearance of a stone building. A pile of cloth in one corner filled the function of a bed, and two wooden blocks of different sizes made a table and a chair, complete with a tiny cushion Jaskier had hastily sewn together. There was a rug on the floor -- cut from Jaskier’s old pants -- and a miniature training dummy made from a stick and a random piece of leather Jaskier had had lying around.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He sounded out of breath.

“Since you can’t go to Kaer Morhen, I brought Kaer Morhen to you. Or well, a vague approximation of it, in any case.” Jaskier suddenly felt embarrassed. Geralt wasn’t saying anything or giving any reaction, he just stood leaning against the doorway, staring at the room. Maybe he had offended him, having the gall to think he could imitate something that meant a great deal to Geralt.

“I really want you to feel safe here,” Jaskier said.

Geralt turned away from the crate and took a step towards Jaskier. He swayed a bit, so Jaskier lay down on the floor and put his fist next to Geralt, holding his index finger out for him to hold onto. Geralt took the offered support and looked Jaskier in the eyes.

“I do,” was all Geralt managed to say. He claimed that witchers were incapable of crying, but his eyes looked suspiciously moist. He turned his head away from Jaskier, but didn’t let go of his finger.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked. Geralt nodded and used his entire arm to wipe his eyes. He still didn’t have any clothes other than the trousers that had been shrunken with him. Jaskier had bought him some doll’s clothes, but he reckoned now was not the time to bring those out. Geralt would be kept warm enough in bed.

While Jaskier thought about the clothing situation, Geralt walked closer to him. Jaskier was lying on his stomach with one arm outstretched along the floor and the other crossed in front of him. Geralt climbed into the crook of Jaskier’s elbow and set himself down there. Jaskier felt the slight weight on him and looked down. Geralt wasn’t looking at him, but he was hugging his arm with both of his. The contact felt good, even if Geralt’s tiny fingers were cold.

Jaskier smiled. He had given Geralt a space of his own, one he would doubtlessly utilise, but he still chose to seek comfort from him. Perhaps the trust between them was greater than Jaskier had dared hope. Or perhaps Geralt was hurting more than he let on. Either way, Jaskier would prove himself worthy of the trust. He would show Geralt that it was alright to lean on others when you needed it. He would be strong enough for them both.

“I’m glad you survived,” Jaskier whispered, not wanting to wake Geralt if he’d fallen asleep. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Geralt turned his head to look at Jaskier. He seemed to be struggling to find what he wanted to say. Jaskier waited, feeling Geralt tap his hands against his skin.

“I’ve never felt more at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3


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